


the future will take care of itself

by adjourn



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Epistolary Elements, Feel-good, Fix-It, Gen, OCs are just for the plot, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24652831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adjourn/pseuds/adjourn
Summary: In which Arthur becomes a famous artist entirely by accident, and everything turns out alright.
Comments: 73
Kudos: 226





	1. Horseshoe Overlook

**Author's Note:**

> this is my best attempt to fix the events of RDR2, somewhat realistically, by making arthur a gifted artist (which he totally is, btw, reading my journal was one of my favorite parts of the game). 
> 
> this is a complete story, i'm just posting it in sections so i can tag spoilers and add minor trivia points. 
> 
> also, it is canon-compliant all the way until chapter 4, but i did my best to not rehash missions and the game story, and focus on the art "subplot". tbh i think i did too much of that because this fic was only meant to be 10k, but characters kept taking over the scene... looking at you, charles chatenay
> 
> hope you enjoy! protect arthur forever!!!
> 
> ***This whole fic spoils random side missions that I am too lazy to tag, so be wary if you care about that***  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***This chapter has spoilers through Chapter 2 of the game***

In the Valentine Smithfields Saloon, Arthur shares a whiskey with a harried writer and a half-conscious gunslinger. 

“I’m quite famous, you know,” Theodore Levin says, his tone paradoxically unsure. “They say I’m one of the greatest novelists to ever come from Baltimore.”

“Sure,” Arthur agrees. 

The drink has made Levin chatty — or, equally likely, all these writer types like to hear themselves talk, and he continues without any further prompting: “I will admit, however, that it’s been a while since my last publication. The publisher has been hounding me as of late. My readers — they ask after me, you know.” He takes a sip of his drink and glances at Arthur, as if to reassure himself Arthur is still listening. “This next book, though! That will stun them all.”

“About this feller here?” Arthur nudges the prone gunslinger, who snorts sleepily in retort.

Levin deflates. “Yes. Oh, if only this drunken fool would give me something to work with. Bah. I could put a bullet in him and be the West’s finest gunslinger  _ and  _ writer!”

“‘Spose I could too.” Arthur chuckles. 

This elicits some excitement in Theodore. “Are you a gunslinger yourself?”

“Not exactly.”

“But you are a man of many talents? The right sort of talents to perhaps, track down and interview some old acquaintances of Mr. Calloway here?” Levin presses. His mustache twitches with anxiety.

“Hm. I ‘spose I am. For the right price.”

Levin nods, eager. “For the right price, of course! I’ll give you half the proceeds of my book. Easily a small fortune.”

“I prefer guaranteed payment.” Arthur fixes him with a stony look, but the man has latched onto the idea, made bold by desperation.

“And you shall have it, sir. I am no small name, you know, and this book will resonate across America!” 

Arthur sighs. He isn’t sure what it is that lately makes him so inclined to help folk with hope bright in their eyes. Maybe just some simple desire to put some good into the world, balance out all the bad he’s already put in. He wonders when, or rather  _ why _ , this feeling started catching up with him.

“Alright,” Arthur relents. “Just… give me their names, and I’ll see if I run into them.”

Levin jumps out of his seat in delight. “Excellent! Thank you. Here, I have these photographs,” he rifles through his bag, pulling out four old pictures and laying them out on the bar, “with some notes on the back as to where they might be. Once you find them, have them share some tales about Jim Boy, here. And photos! Take a photo, if you please, with this,” he all but shoves a camera into Arthur’s hands, “and write to me about what each of them say, as you go, please,” now a business card joins the papers on the table, “for I might be able to get some work done whilst you go about it.” He finishes the flurry of movement with a jolly grin. 

Arthur puts the camera away, then picks up the photos for inspection. “And what should I do if some of these infamous gunslingers prove less than friendly?”

“Ah.” Levin clears his throat. “Well, shoot them.”

“Guess I better get to practicing my draw,” Arthur says, straight-faced. He brings out the clip of papers he stores documents in, preparing to add the pictures to the collection.

“Wait, excuse me.” Levin stops the movement, grabbing him lightly by the wrist. Arthur shakes him off hard and scowls.

“What you pullin’ here?”

Levin’s eyes fix on the papers, surprisingly undeterred by Arthur’s rebuttal. “I apologize, friend. But this...who drew this?” He indicates the page at the top of the stack. It’s a sketch Arthur did of John curled in the snow after the wolves attacked, gashes in harsh lines across his face, the dark seep of blood enshrouding his eyes. An anonymous victim, maybe even a corpse. Arthur tore it out of his journal because he hadn’t really wanted to see it anymore, and shoved it with the rest of his papers.

“Just someone I know,” Arthur lies. 

“It’s incredible. Exquisite, even. The linework itself is amateur, but there’s something so raw and emotional in it.” Levin holds his palm out, splayed wide with desire. “Might I see it?”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably. “I guess.” 

He unclips the drawing and hands it to Levin, who grasps it with the delicacy one might touch a butterfly. After a solid minute of admiration, Levin asks, “Are you still in touch with the artist?”

“...Sort of.”

“Would you mind terribly giving me his address, if you have it? I would like to post a letter to him.”

Arthur squints suspiciously. “What for?”

“To commission more work, of course. I would love to have him draw some portraits for my novel. And I know a few other writers who would delight in this style of art. Oh, yes, there is a great business opportunity for him.”

Arthur is momentarily stunned. He blinks at Levin, mouth slightly agape. He’s seen some of the art,  _ real  _ art, that people make, and his sorry sketches pale in comparison. “I don’t really think it’s all that much.”

“Well, maybe you don’t, but as a creative mind, I see an absolutely wonderful piece of art,” Levin huffs. “What’s more, I see tremendous  _ potential  _ here. Your friend has talent! Probably untapped, if he’s just handing out pieces left and right to, to,” he pauses awkwardly, “his associates.”

Arthur is too bewildered to take offense. When he doesn’t reply, Levin takes it as permission to continue, “So, if you’d be so kind as to give me his address, I plan on starting a correspondence.”

Theodore Levin might be a nut, as most city folk are, Arthur thinks, and likely nothing will come of this whole business. Arthur knows that his drawings aren’t anything special. But he’s already doing a job for the guy anyway, so he figures writing an additional letter now and then couldn’t hurt. 

“Thing is, my friend is a private fella,” Arthur says. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth with the fib. “Just post the letters to me, and I’ll pass ‘em on.”

“I suppose that’ll do. Just please be prompt about it. Your friend’s success relies on you.” Levin pulls out a notepad and pencil. “Where should I send mail to you?”

Arthur flounders. He doesn’t have a permanent address, and he can’t possibly have letters being mailed to him by his real name. And somehow, he wants this business known even less than the private correspondences Mary sends him on occasion, which pass through the camp’s falsified letter trail.

“Just post it to Arthur Callahan in Valentine,” he decides. Hopefully, they’ll be at Horseshoe Overlook a while longer. “I’ll pick it up there, let you know if the address changes.”

“Ah. A nomadic lifestyle, I see, Mr. Callahan.” Levin winks, an unflattering twitch. “And what is your friend’s name?”

Arthur says the first thing that pops into his head, a mishmash of generic American names. “Floyd. Thomas Floyd.”

“A strong appellation,” Levin compliments. “Would you wait while I compose this first letter? Bartender, another drink for this man, please. Wait, no -- another two, three, even!”

Arthur walks away almost as drunk as the gunslinger he leaves behind, a crisp letter and five dollar bill in his pocket, as after much coaxing, Levin managed to buy from him the drawing of John.

.

_ Dear Mr. Floyd, _

_ My name is Theodore Levin, a novelist and biographer from Baltimore. I have previously authored ‘America’s Finest’ and ‘By the Red Sail’, which I am pleased to say have attained much critical success. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, even if only in writing. _

_ I write to you through your friend, Mr. Callahan, in hopes of establishing a business rapport. Firstly, let me say that the drawing of the wounded man in the snow is remarkable. I greatly admire your artistic style, and forgive me if I’m repeating what you are already quite aware of, but you have a genuine gift. I would thus like to commission a set of four drawings done in similar fashion. They would be included in my upcoming book, which details the exploits of renowned gunslinger Jim Boy Calloway. If you’re open to taking commissions, please let me know your rates and we can discuss further. I have also attached the photos of the persons I would like to be drawn, in hopes that they might titillate your artistic spirit. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Theodore Levin _

.

_ Mr. Levin, _

_ Nice to meet you. I can do all your pictures for $20. Do you want any poses or something like that? _

_ Thomas Floyd _

.

_ Dear Mr. Floyd, _

_ It’s wonderful to hear back from you, and with such good news. Twenty dollars is a most fair price. As for the portraits, I leave it to your artistic scruples — though do remember that they are gunslingers. _

_ I’ve included a deposit of $10 with this letter. There is no particular rush on the job, for I am still in the long and arduous process of putting the book together. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Theodore Levin _

.

At the Valentine station, Arthur pockets the money and laughs, feeling a bit like a conman. Twenty dollars for some dumb old drawings that he probably would have done anyway? It’s probably the easiest money he’s made in his life. Hell, he and Javier had hit a homestead recently, and he killed eight men for just double that amount. This Levin guy is a damned fool.

“What’re ya giggling about, Morgan?” Sean drawls, peering over his shoulder. “Letter from a lady lover?”

Arthur folds the letter away and swings his arm around Sean. “Shut it, kid,” he says cheerfully. “Just got good news is all.”

Arthur is in good spirits; they rescued Sean from the bounty hunters in Blackwater not two days ago, and now he and some of the other men are going out to town to celebrate (and, since Karen insisted, case the bank a bit). No matter how much of a pain in the ass Sean can be, Arthur feels fondness for him like he’s family. 

Sean doesn’t shrug him off, allowing Arthur to lead him to where Charles, Lenny, and Javier are waiting outside. “That good news come with some opportunity for profit? My pockets are lookin’ mighty empty right now.”

“You’re in luck, then, because drinks are on me tonight.” Arthur tips his hat at the group and grins. “I’m buying for you lot, too.”

“Ah, Arthur, if I had my guitar I would play it now in your honor,” Javier declares. He mimes an elaborate flair of the instrument, and Lenny snorts.

“You best hold your word, old man. I’m planning on getting pissed,” Sean says. He begins a quick stride toward town, nearly bowling over Lenny, who yelps and steals Sean’s hat in retaliation. This rapidly devolves into Sean chasing Lenny down the road as they dash full speed toward the saloon.

Charles huffs in amusement. “I’m glad that idiot is back.”

“Me too,” says Arthur. “Mighty glad.”

In the distance, there’s a shrill scream, a great thud, then a raucous bout of laughter as Sean and Lenny fall over one another on top of an innocent civilian.

“Less glad by the second,” Arthur grumbles, but he’s holding back a smile as he jogs over to help.

.

Since Levin had seemed pretty casual about the whole thing, Arthur takes his time with the portraits, deciding to do them as he actually encounters the gunslingers. He’s never been a big fan of drawing stuff he hasn’t seen in person anyway.

The first one is Emmet Granger, who’s holed up in a hog farm not far south of Horseshoe Overlook. He’s a filthy bastard, nastier than the pigs he raises, and a rat, too, judging by his oblique references to some kind of witness protection program. Arthur spends the afternoon shoveling hog shit and deeply questioning his life choices as Granger hollers nonsense about the many men he’s butchered. Arthur is three seconds away from butchering  _ him _ before Granger finally calls him over, says he’ll tell him a bit about ol’ Jim Boy.

“Jimmy, dear Jimmy. He was a coward and a moron. Never could hold a gun straight, no matter how much you tried to beat it into him,” Granger sneers. 

“Y’all ran with the same gang?” 

“Sure did. Though Jimmy did more  _ running _ than others. Not like me. No, I was vicious; I was the best enforcer around. I could kill like no other.” His lips curl in a snarl, and when he talks spittle flies from his mouth. “Beaver Brook — now that’s my proudest fight. Shot six men through the head in as many seconds, with a damn shotgun too...”

Arthur runs his hand over his face in exasperation and cuts him off mid-sentence (“shoulda seen the way their skulls just—!”). “Fella ain’t writin’ a book about you. I shoveled the hog shit. Now tell me ‘bout Calloway before I dunk you in it.”

Granger, unsurprisingly, does not take this aggression well. He starts on a rant about respect and the olden days, the glorious murder sprees in which he took part. It’s men like this that Arthur detests. Men like Granger, like Micah, who still feel some sort of horrible glee in killing folks, never growing out of childish cruelty. There’s no joy or pride to be found in their lifestyle. 

Before Arthur can really question the wisdom of it, he’s headed over to the wagon of pig shit with a stick of dynamite. He wants to see this fool covered in the shit he’s spouting.

The encounter ends with hog shit raining from the sky and the gunslinger’s corpse flopping in the dirt — he wasn’t a quick draw compared to Arthur. A fitting end for scum like him, Arthur thinks. If only Micah could meet a similar untimely end.

Arthur rides Fisher away from the farm and finds a nice spot to sit down and draw. He puts more effort in than he normally would, even using one of the nice art pencils he looted at a homestead way back. 

The portrait he does of Emmet Granger depicts him with a throwing knife in one hand and his revolver in the other. He has a savage snarl on his face, crooked teeth bared, his brow drawn down in deep, angry wrinkles. There’s spatters on his shirt that look like blood, but which Arthur privately knows is pig shit. He has a little laugh over that.

.

_ Dear Mr. Callahan, _

_ Thank you for your information regarding Mr. Granger’s experiences with Mr. Calloway, as well as the photo. The contents of his story were unfortunate. I regret that he did not have more thrilling tales to recount, and that your encounter ended so gruesomely. Nonetheless, this was a step forward for the book (and your payment!). Please continue to keep me updated. _

_ Obliged, _

_ Theodore Levin _

.

_ Dear Mr. Floyd, _

_ Your rendition of Emmet Granger astounds. I feel as though the drawing has stripped the man down to his most violent essence! This will complement the book very well.  _

_ I am compelled to inquire if you dabble in other subjects besides portraits, or perhaps other mediums. If you do, would you mind terribly sending a few samples my way just for my own brief perusal? I would happily pay for the postage fee, and of course mail them back promptly as well. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Theodore Levin _

.

Arthur’s journey to hunt Flaco Hernandez is preceded by a series of strange encounters with an archaeologist, geologist, and wildlife photographer.

Really, he has the three of them to thank for his visit to Flaco, who is holed up near Colter of all places, on that godforsaken snowy hellhole of a mountain which Arthur would never otherwise step foot on again, gorgeous view be damned. Deborah MacGuiness makes oblique references to dinosaur bones that _might_ be in the West Grizzlies, but more importantly mentions a formation of hot springs and oddly positioned rocks up north that Arthur immediately connects to the second Jack Hall Gang treasure map (the first, he bought on a careless whim from yet another eccentric stranger—Arthur is far too popular these days—and followed to Caliban’s Seat). Then Francis Sinclair twirls out of an inconspicuous house by Strawberry spinning tales of fantastical carvings from possibly aliens but more probably Mayans, or whoever used to live in these parts a few hundred years ago. That is all decent motivation to make a trek north, at least, though not so far north as Colter. 

The real kick in the head comes from Albert Mason, the photographer whose _ bag of meat  _ he saves from a coyote. Arthur wonders how he gets himself in these situations, truly.

Mason practically falls over himself thanking Arthur when he returns with the bag. “I really appreciate your help, Mr. Callahan. I’m in your debt, truly and immensely.” 

Arthur tips his hat. “Sure. Just a bit of advice: don’t walk around with a bag of meat out in the wilderness.”

“Yes, perhaps that wasn’t the wisest move,” Mason agrees.

There’s something about him that makes Arthur like him more than the typical haggard strangers he plays good samaritan for. There’s an understated intensity to him, for though his demeanor is slumped and self-deprecating, he carries on in the way a good soldier follows orders: calmly, without complaint or question, and even possessing a healthy amount of pride, walking the path that he has been assigned. It is this small fondness for his character that stirs Arthur to pause and ask as Mason is packing up his camera: “Mr. Mason, do you know a lot about art?”

Mason titters. “Well, I certainly hope so, given my occupation.”

“I mean, uh,  _ art  _ art. Like paintings and drawings, that sort of thing.”

“I consider photography ‘ _ art  _ art’, as you put it, but yes, I understand what you mean.” He smiles, not taking offense at Arthur’s amateurish phrasing. “I am familiar with the subject. I actually dabbled a bit in painting when I was younger. Why do you ask?”

“I got an artist friend. Wanted to buy ‘em a gift. Y’know, supplies or, uh, mediums, I think they call it?” Arthur takes out a cigarette and lights it, hoping to hide the clumsiness of his lie. 

“How thoughtful of you. Do you know what they usually use? Why not a new set of brushes or pencils? Maybe personally engraved, depending on how good of a friend they are,” Mason says suggestively.

Arthur chokes on smoke as he laughs. “Not that kind of a friend. And they normally use pencils. Nothin’ fancy. But they’ve been mentionin’ they wanna try different stuff.”

“Ah, then the natural progression from there might be ink. The nearest art supplies store is all the way in Saint Denis, but I do have a catalog somewhere — I buy supplies from there myself…”

So Arthur gets a few torn-out pages of a mail order catalog that he posts when he passes through Strawberry. A few days later, a package arrives for him in Valentine: a fresh catalog, a new drawing book whose paper still smells sharp with chemicals, and a set of pens with a bottle of ink. The whole purchase costs more than he would like, but it’s one of the few things he’s ever bought that doesn’t have anything to do with survival. It’s not food or blankets or a new scope for his rifle, or even a stiff drink, which Arthur would insist has very much to do with survival. It’s just for the sake of art.

Mind churning with dazed reflections about his purchase, he slowly rides Fisher out to the fields by Caliban’s Seat. There, he sits, and tries the ink. 

It isn’t easy. He’s used ritzy pens like this maybe twice in his life, and the ink comes out a blotchy mess. It’s frustrating like nothing in his life has ever been. At some point, the scratch of the pen tears a hole in the paper, and Arthur rips out the page and crumples it with extreme zeal. He almost knocks over the ink bottle twice, and after five pages of failed starts he is fully prepared to pack up and call it quits.

But then he looks up at the rock spires reaching up toward the sky, the clouds shifting softly behind, the river paving a gentle path through the land. He stays and draws.

The drawing of Caliban’s Seat comes out quite well. It’s good enough that Arthur recalls the ramshackle frames of Colter and thinks about how nice it would look in strokes of ink, and how snowy mountains or a frozen lake might be captured in deep black.

So he has Albert Mason to thank, ultimately, for his ride all the way back into the cold, and his hunt for Flaco Hernandez.

.

Listening to his better judgement, Arthur asks Charles to come with him on his treasure-dinosaur-carving-gunslinger hunt. It isn’t smart to go the mountains alone even in the midst of spring. Charles doesn’t take much convincing — he’s the type to thrive most in the open wilderness and grows visibly tense if he’s stuck in camp for too long, so he seems downright cheerful at Arthur’s request.

“There might not be much treasure, and the gunslinger ain’t really worth anythin’ yet,” Arthur warns him nonetheless. “Dutch would call it a long-term investment, I guess.”

“It’s alright. It’ll be nice just to take a ride. Besides, there’s some good game up there, and I need pelts for a new coat.” 

“Also, I’m not sure these dinosaur bones or rock carvings are really out there. I haven’t seen any yet,” Arthur qualifies again.

“Do you want me to come or not?” Charles says, bemused.

Arthur gives him a sheepish look. “Naw, I do. Just don’t wanna waste your time.”

Charles laughs and climbs onto his horse. “Let’s go before you can convince me or  _ you _ otherwise, you old fool.” 

It’s a long trip to Cairn Lake. They make camp by a lagoon, and Charles snags a fine elk. He shows Arthur how to best skin the beast and properly harvest its antlers, which can be crushed into fine medicinal powder. When they stop overnight in Colter, Arthur wakes up before Charles so he can draw the town in private, dawn blooming overhead. 

Flaco Hernandez’s camp proves well-supplied and equally well-defended. Arthur’s instinct, as usual, is to go in guns-blazing, but Charles suggests they creep in through the woods and take the men out without guns. 

“That way you can actually talk to Flaco,” Charles says. Arthur explained the real reason behind the visit on the ride up, and promised him a cut of the book profits (though Charles was equally skeptical of the hypothetical returns).

“Ain’t sure he’s gonna wanna talk after we kill all his boys.” 

“Probably not. But he won’t realize we killed them for a few minutes if we do it quietly.” Charles pulls out his knife, the metal gleaming in the white light of snow. “Long enough for a brief conversation.”

They sneak their way through camp with ease, as it turns out most of the men are wildly hungover after some party last night. Unfortunately, Flaco is more of a “shoot first, ask questions later” kind of guy anyway. Arthur takes him out in two shots to the chest with Emmet Granger’s revolver. 

“Damn. You’re quick,” Charles says, leaning over to inspect the bloody holes in Flaco’s torso. “Too bad we didn’t get any stories out of him.”

Arthur crouches down and takes a picture of the body. “I got a feeling all my interviews are gonna turn out like this. I’m two for two now.”

“Arthur Morgan, amateur reporter. Who’d have thought?”

Arthur laughs. “Don’t think any newspapers would wanna hire me.”

Before they leave, Arthur turns toward the lake and snaps a quick photo for reference, later. Charles doesn’t comment. Arthur likes that about him. He knows when to keep questions to himself and respect a man’s privacy. And quite likely, he understands more than anyone a keen appreciation for nature’s beauty.

Cotorra Springs’ treasure ends up being a disappointment, resulting in yet another goddamn treasure map, but their pockets are pleasantly plump with Flaco’s substantial cash stash, so Arthur calls the trip a win. Plus, there’s that gorgeous wolf they spot prowling around, its blue coat shining amongst the geysers. Arthur takes two pictures of it: one for himself as a drawing reference, and another to give to Mason if he sees him again.

They even find both a dinosaur bone and a rock carving, believe it or not, near the cliffs they make camp by; he and Charles share a minute of bewildered silence each time. It’s a strange world they live in, it really is.

.

_ Dear Mr. Floyd, _

_ Thank you dearly for sharing your landscape work! I am delighted to find that you are equally talented with ink as you are with pencil. Flaco’s portrait was, of course, quite exquisite, and the bonus ink drawing of his gun! Extraordinary detailing. As it would feel wrong to accept such fine work without payment, I’ve attached five dollars to this letter. _

_ Now is the time to admit, Mr. Floyd, that I told a small fib in my previous correspondence. I wanted to examine your other work not just for my own viewing pleasure, but to share it with some friends of mine if it was of the same marvelous standard as your other sketches. And it was, indeed! I felt terribly remiss keeping your talents all to myself.  _

_ My close friend and famed poet Mr. Elliot Blake was quite enamoured with your landscapes, and I’ve passed along a letter from him to you all the way from Indianapolis. I did not provide Mr. Callahan as a contact, as after some reflection it did not seem prudent.  _

_ I remain ever excited about your portraits! _

_ Sincerely _

_ Theodore Levin _

.

_ Mr. Levin, _

_ If it’s not too much trouble, please continue forwarding letters to my friend Mr. Floyd through yourself, then to me. Take the post fees out of my share of the book. Thanks. _

_ Arthur Callahan _

.

_ Mr. Thomas Floyd, _

_ I was impressed with the quality of work my colleague Mr. Levin showed me. I have put my trust in Mr. Levin’s word as to the reliability of your character, and am interested in hiring you for a rather significant task. _

_ I am one of the last great romantic poets of this century, and as such I am currently engaged in a project of massive undertaking: assembling a poetry collection which is to be my magnum opus. A section of this collection addresses the clash of our civilization with the beauty of the natural world. I found the drawing of the abandoned mountain town quite fitting. I want to have an accompanying art piece for at least eight of the twelve poems that will comprise this chapter. To that end, I aim to commission seven more pieces along a similar vein to the aforementioned piece, all in ink, to be delivered within the next three months. The actual content of the drawing is to your discretion, so long as it conforms to the overarching theme I have described. _

_ I would be willing to pay $10 a piece for each, and if you should accept, will promptly send the first $10 in the mail to purchase the abandoned town drawing for use in my collection.  _

_ Please see attached a sample of my poetry.  _

_ Best Regards, _

_ Elliot Blake _

.

_ Mr. Blake, _

_ I’d be very interested in taking this commission. Your poetry is real nice indeed. I’ve sent a drawing of an oil derrick. Does this suit your book? _

_ Thomas Floyd _

.

_ Mr. Thomas Floyd, _

_ It is more than just a simple book, Mr. Floyd. But yes, this drawing is more than suitable. I think it shall accompany ‘Weathered, Scarcely’, a copy of which, along with your payment, I have included with this letter. _

_ Thank you for your compliments. _

_ Best Regards, _

_ Elliot Blake _

.

Over the next month, Arthur encounters all manner of striking scenes, a few of which he draws and mails to Elliot Blake for payment: a burnt wagon among the remains of a brush fire, an empty trading post standing lonesome in the prairie. He spends careful time on each one, blackening the image onto paper with sweeping blows of ink. He begins to treat the pieces like he might treat a real job since they pay nearly as well as any minor heist, with the added bonus of there being far less possibility he gets shot in the process. 

When he isn’t out stealing stagecoaches with Hosea or saving Swanson’s sorry ass from death by train, Arthur gets in the habit of vanishing from camp for a few hours every day, just after he finishes the morning’s chores. He rides to the Heartlands or the Dakota River to sit and draw; sometimes in his journal, which he uses for the more practical purposes of keeping track of plants and animals, or for sketches that parallel his written entries; sometimes in his sketchbook, which becomes filled not only with meticulous ink drawings, but also doodles and scribbles of partially formed ideas.

On a journey to hunt a monstrous bear with Hosea, Arthur startles as he passes O’Creagh’s Run. He finds two heavy gold bars, the finale of the Jack Hall Gang’s treasure, and laughs out loud in disbelief. When he brings one back for the camp’s tithing box, Dutch smiles that proud, fatherly smile that makes Arthur’s chest tighten up. They buy a chicken coop and fancy up everyone’s tents a bit. The gang relaxes, tension melting like the last of winter’s frost. 

The haul gives Arthur leave to spend even more time in the wilderness exploring and drawing. At some point, he meanders northwest through Ambarino again (he’s becoming more fond of snow than he would have ever imagined; the crisp white backdrop makes it perfect for scenes in ink) and details a solemn grave in the snow for Blake, then catches sight of an enormous bison with a cloak of snow. Recalling the importance of bison to Charles’ culture, he takes a photo, has it printed in town, and brings it back to camp.

“Saw this fella up near Lake Isabella,” Arthur says when he hands it over, the brim of his hat tipped low to cover his eyes. It isn’t low enough that he can’t see the puzzlement on Charles’ features open into wonder.

Charles clasps him on the arm and says, warm with gratitude, “Thank you, Arthur. He’s beautiful.” 

A few days later, Charles invites him to ride back up to the lake, as he wants to see the bison in person. Arthur’s just come off a grim series of debt collecting jobs for Strauss, and he gladly goes along, relieved to find a distraction from the guilt that’s been gnawing at him.

The bison lingers in the same area Arthur had seen it last, by the eastern shore of Lake Isabella. Charles goes still when they find it. He kneels in the snow, head bowed but eyes trained on the creature, his whole body heavy with reverence. 

Arthur allows him his privacy. He sits himself on a rock a few yards back and takes out his sketchbook, his ink, his pens. Draws the bison, fur in staccato black. They stay long enough for him to draw the lake, too, which becomes a series of delicate lines reflecting the pines. Almost an afterthought, he adds Charles in the hunched posture of a worshipper, apparent even through his thick winter coat. It becomes the first of his drawings to have a real title: ‘Man Watching God’, he writes in the bottom margin.

Charles is reflective when they set up camp, still lost in his own world. He remains quiet throughout the evening and rejects the cigarette Arthur offers him. 

In the morning, he shakes Arthur awake and beckons for him to follow. They ride west a short way to the other side of the lake, where Charles points to a gorgeous white Arabian grazing by the treeline. It’s a rare steed, likely worth near a thousand dollars. 

“Think you can tame her?” Charles says.

Arthur exhales, stunned. “You found her.”

“I have Taima. And besides, I wanted to thank you. For the photo and all.”

“Didn’t give it to you for the thanks,” Arthur says.

“Still.”

Ultimately, Arthur isn’t so selfless as to turn down a chance at getting such a beautiful horse. The mare is jittery when he approaches her, glacially slow, and turns fierce when he mounts her. She nearly bucks him into the lake a few times, and he tamps down his alarmed hollers with limited success. It’s the least graceful horse-taming of his life, but he does manage it.

Charles is holding back laughter when Arthur finally leads the Arabian over. The horse snorts, too.

“Not a word from you, Mr. Smith,” Arthur says as he saddles up his new horse. “Not one word.”

.

_ Dear Mr. Floyd, _

_ I ask you not to scorn me too much for this, but I have taken the liberty of submitting your drawing of the wounded man to an arts and literature magazine. And, to what I hope is your delight, it has been accepted! It will be published in next month’s edition of ‘The Southern Arts Journal’. Do you have an official name for the piece? Otherwise, I will inform the editor that it is simply untitled. _

_ Now, Mr. Floyd, if you are a natural cynic such as I (oh, an unfortunate, cursed, practical view of the world!), I’m sure you are asking yourself why I’m so invested in disseminating your art. The answer is twofold. Primarily, it is a sense of camaraderie that is shared amongst like-minded, creative spirits. I genuinely wish to see you succeed, as I feel your work could make a tremendous and wonderful impact on the humanities. My secondary reason is that it benefits me that your name grows more famous, since it will be associated with my upcoming book.  _

_ To be honest, Mr. Floyd, the recent years have been a struggle for me. My muse has flitted away like the spirit Ariel, but it has not gone to fulfill my commands. No, it has escaped my grasp, and now I remain as forlorn as Desdemona, betrayed by my one love. I, the most renowned writer to come out of Baltimore, lost without inspiration. _

_ I apologize for rambling on. My point is: this book will succeed, and your art is very much helping it to flourish! _

_ Please look out for the next issue of  _ The Southern Arts Journal _! _

_ Best, _

_ Theodore Levin _

.

_ Mr. Levin, _

_ I do not mind. The drawing is called ‘A Fool in the Snow’. _

_ Mr. Floyd _

_ P.S. I’m sure your book will be just fine. _

_. _

Frankly, Arthur has no idea where to obtain a magazine, much less an arts and literature one. He doesn’t even read the paper. So he does a cursory perusal of the general store in Valentine, and when he finds nothing, decides to leave it at that. It’s not like he’d be seeing anything new anyway — it’s  _ his  _ drawing.

He’s forgotten the matter entirely when he runs into Albert Mason again in the northern part of West Elizabeth (after he’s gotten done murdering half of Strawberry to rescue goddamn Micah, of all people). The photographer is set up in a clearing, his camera directed toward a tree with a bloody piece of meat hanging from it.

“What in the hell are you doing now?”

Mason jolts in surprise at Arthur’s voice. “Oh, Mr. Callahan, hello again. I am photographing wolves! Hence the meat. It is a lure. And, since I am a fair distance off, I should be quite safe.”

He gestures between the dangling meat and his own person, standing about 20 feet away.

First Micah, now this. Idiots, idiots everywhere, Arthur thinks. 

“If by ‘safe’ you mean ‘getting eaten by wolves’, then sure,” Arthur says drolly, “you’re quite safe, Mr. Mason.”

Arthur is foolish enough to stick around anyway and protect the man from the wolves that inevitably come. He shoots three with his rifle, clean kills through the skull, before the others yip, whimper and flee.

Mason collapses to the ground, his buckling knees giving out. “Once more, you have saved me. And I think … I think I got a very nice shot.”

“I hope it was worth it.” Arthur frowns at the dead wolves around him.

“We shall see, I suppose.” Mason gets up and dusts himself off. “I’ve made camp not too far from here, if you’d like to join me for the night. I can offer an extravagant dinner of canned salmon.”

Arthur considers the darkening sky and the chill creeping in. He needs to set up camp himself anyway, and Mason isn’t such bad company. “How do you feel about wolf for dinner instead?”

“Hah! That would certainly be some fine irony… Oh. You weren’t joking?”

That night they share slabs of big game meat over the campfire grill, an item that Mason expresses much incredulity at: “You carry a  _ grill,  _ Mr. Callahan? Is that considered essential when traversing the wilderness?” 

When they’re having a smoke after the meal, Arthur digs out the photo of the blue-coated wolf he saw all those weeks ago. It didn’t turn out great (his pencil rendering of the animal was honestly much better), but Mason gushes over it all the same. “Where did you spot this gorgeous beast?” 

“Feel like I shouldn’t tell you. Knowing you, you’re just gonna just run up there and get yourself killed.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” he says offhandedly. It’s clear that the photo, the knowledge of some new grand quarry, has erased his nerves from nearly getting eaten not two hours ago. He declares, “But I must get this beauty on film for myself!” 

Arthur snorts. “It’s your hide. Beast’s up in Cotorra Springs. Found him runnin’ along the geysers to the west.”

“Oh, thank you, friend. He will be simply magnificent to shoot. To photograph,” he clarifies when Arthur gives him a funny look. “I would never dream to kill such a creature.”

“He’d kill you first anyway.” Arthur takes a puff of his cigarette. The smoke unfurls, white in the cold night air. “So, what you plannin’ on doin’ with these photos?” 

“I have plans to exhibit them in Saint Denis. If that goes well, hopefully I can get them displayed in a gallery in New York City.” He sighs. “That’s a big ‘if’, of course. It isn’t easy being an artist.”

Unable to help it, Arthur laughs out loud. He’s been finding it mighty easy so far, but then again, he’s not really the kind of grand, gallery-showing, city-slicking, successful artist that Mason seems to aspire to.

“It really isn’t, Mr. Callahan,” Mason grumbles.

“No, no, I’m sure,” Arthur says, appeasing, but the man clearly doesn’t trust his sincerity.

Mason shuffles through his bag and pulls out a magazine. “Here. Flip through this a bit. Some great examples in there of all kinds of art. Maybe it will give you some more appreciation for the work.”

It’s a copy of  _ The Southern Arts Journal  _ published this month. Arthur takes it and leafs through the pages, Mason providing brief “a-hah”s and hums of commentary when he sees a piece he particularly likes (“Look at that linework, so elegant” or “the warm-cool contrast here is excellent”). Arthur dutifully pauses when Mason chimes in and takes a moment to observe the art for himself. He can admit that he does appreciate some of the pieces. Some of them make him itch for a pen.

Arthur stops without Mason’s prompting when he finds the drawing of John.

“‘A Fool in the Snow’ by Thomas Floyd,” Mason reads aloud. “Quite dark. Bleak. It’s not my cup of tea, but I can admire the emotion of it. It screams ‘tragedy’.”

Tragedy. John could have really died up there, Arthur thinks. He thumbs the outline of the deep gashes he drew on John’s face. The gashes that have now, in reality, become interminable scars. 

“Does this one speak to you, Mr. Callahan?”

Arthur says, voice low in his throat: “You could say that.”

.

_ Dear Mr. Floyd, _

_ I’m afraid I have a small problem to bring to your attention. It is a good problem, to be fair, a problem that many wish they have. ‘A Fool in the Snow’ gained much attention after its inclusion in  _ The Southern Arts Journal _ , and since then, I, as the sole point of contact with you, have been overwhelmed with letters and requests. I am quite a busy man myself and do not have the time to pass this many messages back and forth. Might they be able to forward letters to Mr. Callahan directly or another colleague of yours instead? _

_ I’ve sent along the letters that I have prior received. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Theodore Levin _

.

The O’Driscoll boy proves himself useful, leading them straight to the bastards’ shifty camp up behind Valentine. Colm isn’t there, because of course it can’t be that easy, but they get a solid take from it.

And somehow, Kieran O’Driscoll, skittish as a newborn colt and skinny as one to boot, saves Arthur from getting his head blown off by a shotgun. Arthur grudgingly tallies the boy in his good books.

With the exception of Charles, who is usually up before the sun, and whoever’s on watch, Arthur is always awake earliest to do chores. Arthur isn’t expected to help out so much around camp, given that he’s also the top contributor to the tithing box, but he likes the routine of it, or perhaps the domesticity. Since Kieran has been granted his tenuous freedom, he conscripts Kieran to help him unload supplies to the proper wagons and hay bales to the feeding area every morning. Then, Arthur brushes Artemisia while Kieran takes care of the other horses, and they part ways when Arthur goes to chop firewood or collect kindling.

The kid is a gentle soul, the kind that isn’t meant for their sort of life. His gentleness evidences itself in his careful handling of the horses, devoutly brushing their manes and whispering soft reassurances. He really is a  _ kid _ , too, way he stammers out “sir” left and right when talking to any of the men, the open fear displayed in the crease of his brow and the equally intense longing when he looks over at the gang gathered by the campfire, singing and chatting nightly. It’s a shame he got mixed up with the O’Driscolls, and now their gang, who are also good-for-nothing criminals, no matter what angle you look at it. 

(Arthur remembers being him. Maybe he still is, now; only instead of chasing the heels of any who might give him some approval, Arthur only begs after Dutch.)

When they first start working together, Kieran clams up, practically sweating with nerves as he falls over himself to apologize for any perceived slight. It probably doesn’t help that Arthur can’t resist tossing the occasional threat of dismemberment or maiming his way. It’s just too funny to watch him squirm.

Eventually, the kid relaxes in the face of Arthur’s ribs and teasing, learning Arthur doesn’t mean any harm — that Arthur, contrary to his gruff threats, isn’t really going to put a bullet in him for “breathing too loud”. He pours an extra cup of coffee for Arthur every morning, and they sit by the campfire, drinking the harsh brew, for a few comfortable minutes as dawn illuminates the trees. Then comes the talking. Kieran jabbers on about this and that: his childhood, tricks for calming horses, fishing tales, the folks around camp. Abigail let him near Jack for the first time recently, and he taught the boy how to make a fishing lure; John glared at him the whole while. Kieran mentions how scared he is of Bill and how even more terrified he is of Miss Grimshaw. Arthur laughs at the former and solemnly agrees with the latter. Susan is not to be crossed.

Most of all, he goes on about Mary-Beth. It’s obvious from the way he gushes that he’s sweet on her, hopelessly so. Apparently Mary-Beth was the one who tended to him while he was tied to the tree, keeping him alive. Arthur hadn’t paid much attention to it.

“Sometimes, Mr. Morgan, she looks just like, like an angel,” Kieran says in a hushed tone. “When that light hits her fine yellow hair…”

“Kid, shut your mouth,” Arthur groans. It’s been a mere week since Kieran started talking to him in the mornings, and yet: “I have heard enough of your damn blabbering about Mary-Beth for two lifetimes.”

“S-sorry, Mr. Morgan.” 

Blessed silence falls for a minute.

“She’s so smart, too, Mr. Morgan,” Kieran blurts. “She’s read hundreds of books, did you know that? She, well, she wants to write a book of her own someday. She’ll be the most famous romance writer in the whole United States of America, I reckon.”

“Goddamn it, son,” says Arthur, and escapes to go chop wood.

Despite how irritating Kieran’s swooning over Mary-Beth gets to be, it does give Arthur an idea when he receives Levin’s latest letter. Mary-Beth  _ is  _ smart, reads and writes best out of all the women in the camp and likely the men, too, excepting Dutch. They don’t exactly collect scholars. So Arthur prepares to tell a minor lie and heads over to the girls’ tent, where Mary-Beth, true to form, has her nose in a book.

“How are you?” Arthur greets.

She looks up, startled. “Arthur. Hello. I’m doing just fine, thank you.”

“I was wonderin’ if I could speak to you a minute. Got a job of sorts for you.”

“Of course. I’m not too busy, as you can see.” She titters and puts the book down. 

“Good. Just, uh, follow me, then. It’s a bit of a private matter.” 

“Oh! Alright.”

They walk a short distance out of camp, far enough that they’re both concealed and out of earshot of the others. Mary-Beth turns to him, eyes wide and attentive, a faint dusting of pink across her cheeks. 

“What’s this about, Arthur?” she asks. She takes a step closer to him, smiling shyly.

Arthur hastily says, “Like I said, I have a job for you.” He hands her the letter from Levin. She begins to read through it as he explains, “I have a friend who’s an artist, Thomas Floyd. He’s a real private man and doesn’t like to talk to people directly. He only takes letters from me. But he’s been starting to do more business lately, and I can’t exactly have lots of folks mailing me. So I was wonderin’ if you would be his liaison. They could mail you, under a fake name of course. Then you could get the mail and bring it to me, and I’ll send it to him.”

“Why don’t I just send it to him myself?”

Arthur shrugs, trying to be nonchalant. “Like I said: he’s a private man. Only talks to me.”

“And he’s giving us a cut of the sales from his art? What’s the percentage? Or is it a flat fee?” 

Arthur is impressed by her acuity. “Let’s just say it’s 25 cents a letter for you, plus coverin’ the postage fee.” Now comes the real reason he asked Mary-Beth in particular: “If you wanted to take on a more active role, though, he says he might be willing to cut you a small percent of the profits.”

Mary-Beth narrows her eyes. “Active role?”

“Actually reading the letters, respondin’ to people on his behalf. Representin’ him on the business end. Weeding out the stuff that ain’t worth his time and sending polite rejection letters back. Forwarding him any stuff that seems like good money.” The more he talks about it, the more Arthur is sure that this would be an excellent idea. He doesn't have the time or patience to respond to letters all day, and he needs a clean name and face to pass mail through, especially after that encounter with that bastard Milton by the river. “I thought this might be an opportunity to get your foot in the door. Make connections and all that with writer folk, given you wanna be one someday.” 

Mary-Beth blinks in surprise, as she’s never shared those aspirations with him before. 

“The O’Driscoll boy told me,” Arthur says.

“He’s not an O’Driscoll, Arthur,” she scolds, even as a fond smile brightens her face. The hint of a blush is back. Huh. Maybe the kid has a chance after all. “But thank you. Yes, I think this would be just wonderful.”

“Alright. Good. I’ll hash out the details with you later. Gotta get back and talk to Marston about a job.”

They trek back to camp. Mary-Beth catches him by the arm before he can head over to John, stops him in his tracks.

“I’m glad you’re doing some legitimate business, Arthur,” she says. Her voice is soft, encouraging. “And with someone as lovely as an artist, too. I think this will be good for you.”

Arthur smiles and tips his hat. His chest aches with something unfamiliar. “I sure hope so,” he says, and goes.

He and John have a train to rob.

.

_ To Mr. Theodore Levin, _

_ It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Mary Woodhouse, and I am Mr. Thomas Floyd’s business representative. Please forward any future communications with Mr. Floyd to me instead of Mr. Callahan. I appreciate all you’ve done for my client. _

_ Yours,  _

_ Miss Mary Woodhouse _

.

_ To Mr. Elliot Blake, _

_ It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Mary Woodhouse, and I am Mr. Thomas Floyd’s business representative. Please forward any future communications with Mr. Floyd to me instead of Mr. Levin.  _

_ I have attached two pieces of Mr. Floyd’s latest work for use in your poetry collection. I hope they are to your satisfaction. I found them very haunting myself. The last installment of your eight-piece commission will follow soon. _

_ Yours, _

_ Miss Mary Woodhouse _

.

_ To Mrs. Jamie Miller, _

_ It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Mary Woodhouse, and I am Mr. Thomas Floyd’s business representative. Please forward any future communications with Mr. Floyd to me. _

_ For the reasonable price of $20, Mr. Floyd would be very happy to take your commission. He was very moved by the photograph you provided. You may expect the piece done within two weeks of his receipt of a $10 deposit. _

_ Yours, _

_ Miss Mary Woodhouse _

.

_ To Mr. Howard Klein, _

_ It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Mary Woodhouse, and I am Mr. Thomas Floyd’s business representative. Please forward any future communications with Mr. Floyd to me. _

_ Unfortunately, Mr. Floyd is unable to fulfill your commission, as he does not accept “the attention of very wealthy and respectable figures” as payment. If you were to offer an actual sum of money, he may reconsider the job. _

_ Yours, _

_ Miss Mary Woodhouse _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a lot of fun making names
> 
> Thomas Floyd = Thomas Cole + 'Pretty Boy' Floyd  
> Elliot Blake = T.S. Eliot + William Blake  
> Mary-Beth named herself "Mary Woodhouse" after Emma, because I'm pretty sure she would be a huge Jane Austen fan.
> 
> in terms of prices, inflation dictates that $5 would be ~$150 in 2020. that seems WILD, especially when you think about the amount of money you get in RDR2? so i tried to keep prices as a mix between actual inflation-accurate prices and the in-game prices
> 
> also if you spot any mistakes, let me know! thanks for reading :)


	2. Clemens Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***This chapter contains spoilers through Chapter 3 of the game***

Cornwall again. Arthur thinks, darkly, that name will haunt them for a long while.

The gang leaves the rolling fields of the Heartlands behind and heads south to Lemoyne, where sorry inbred bastards fuck pigs and run around with sacks on their heads. He doesn’t much like the people here; he can’t imagine how Lenny, Charles, or Tilly feels.

The heat makes everyone languid, lazy. It’ll get worse soon with summer rolling in. Jobs come slow, especially since Arthur ends up becoming _deputized_ by the local idiot of a sheriff. He can’t exactly be holding up stagecoaches with the shiny star pinned to his chest. For once, Arthur leaves the robbing to the younger men. Sean and Lenny hit one, two homesteads together, and Sean peacocks about camp with his share of the haul, then loses it all to Micah in a series of ill-advised five finger fillet games. 

When Herr Strauss asks Arthur to collect on an old debt back in some West Elizabeth ranch, Dutch interrupts and says Arthur is needed here to ingratiate himself with the Grays. He can’t be disappearing for a week. So Strauss sends Micah instead. Arthur normally would have enjoyed the ride up there, could get some nice drawing and solitude in, but he can’t say he’s sorry to skip out on the job. Usury has always seemed lower than robbing folk at gunpoint, but maybe that’s just his backwards self-justification talking. Either way, he hopes Micah does such a good job at getting the money that Strauss just starts going to him. God knows Micah loves intimidating and beating on folk.

As Dutch declared, he and Arthur commit to their act of upstanding, justice-seeking deputies. Therefore, the few violent jobs Arthur does, the shoot-outs and stealing that he’s used to, are bizarrely all on behalf of the Rhodes Sheriff Department, though directed at Lemoyne Raiders instead of innocent folk. Arthur can tell that Dutch deeply enjoys playing at lawman. The irony gorges his love of melodrama. 

As for the art business, Arthur and Mary-Beth meet once a week to exchange letters and drawings. They don’t make a big deal out of it, just walk toward the lakeshore and sit for a while to discuss affairs. 

He sends Blake the last piece of art (a collapsing church by an old battlefield; he draws that, too, for himself) and gets started on the Miller commission. Other jobs roll in: an ink portrait of a sour-faced woman, a couple sketches of some sailors, a rendition of a baby angel. That last one takes a few tries. Arthur has never drawn a baby before. 

The commissions are shaping up to be a respectable source of income, providing steady money in a period when Arthur’s conventional labors are restricted (though the remains of the Jack Hall treasure and the gold bar from the German family have left him plenty comfortable financially). The name Thomas Floyd has credibility after being published in the apparently reputable magazine, and he manages to sell sketches for five dollars a pop. Some rich fools pay up to $30 for the more time-consuming ink drawings. 

Almost all the people who mail Mary-Beth want portraits done, whether it be of themselves or their wives or their mistresses, sending photos along for reference, and an irritating number of them want him to do them for _free,_ she reports. 

“These people are crazy, Arthur,” she complains. “Narcissists, egomaniacs. Your friend is lucky he doesn’t have to deal with them.”

“That’s why he pays you,” says Arthur, suppressing a grin.

He falls into a rhythm. Hunting with Charles every few days, fishing with Hosea others. Working with Kieran in the mornings. Riding off to draw, sometimes in a nice spot of shade, sometimes in a private table of the Rhodes Parlor House if he wants a more stable surface. The regulars get to know him. “Deputy Callahan,” they greet cheerfully, tipping their hats or curtsying. The bartender tells stories about his latest acts of goodness (“Saw him coming into town with Robbie Laidlaw last week. Lying bastard’s finally behind bars. He scammed me out of $20, he did.” and “Did you know he saved Clarence’s life? Sucked the venom out of his leg. Wouldn’t believe it looking at him, right? Mean ol’ brute, looks like, but he’s a genu-ine, nice fella, yessir.”) until Arthur long-sufferingly asks him to stop, not wanting the attention.

In the evenings, Arthur returns to camp and settles by the fire with a beer in hand, humming along to the melody of Javier’s guitar. Clemens Point attains a fragile peace as it becomes clear neither the Pinkertons nor Cornwall’s men have followed them south. 

Arthur is drawing in the parlor house when he catches wind of Levin’s last two gunslingers. He’s not inclined to go mucking around the swamp after Black Belle anytime soon, but Billy Midnight is rumored to be riding the train through Rhodes that very night. Arthur folds away his latest piece — a pompous, bearded lawman on horseback — drops a few coins on the table, and heads to the station.

Dusk has long fallen, washing the town in a purplish hue. No one notices when Arthur slips onto the train from the other side of the tracks. Soon after, the iron beast whistles, steam billowing toward the yellowed moon, and lurches forward. Arthur sighs and resigns himself to a long ride to Saint Denis.

He stalks through the passenger cars. At this time of night, most passengers are snoozing in the luxurious velvet seats, their purses and briefcases held loosely in their laps or settled on the space beside them, enormously tempting. Arthur flexes his fingers and moves on, tugs the brim of hat down low to shroud his face. Then, he recalls that he’s technically a deputy around these parts; there’s no need to hide. If he was so pleased, Arthur Callahan could pull Billy Midnight from this train with the strong arm of the law. Ain’t that a thought.

The dining car has a smattering of people. Bleary-eyed insomniacs sipping on a nightcap, businessmen boredly flipping through the paper. Cigar smoke drifts and curls in the air, indolent. A man is seated at the bar, his royal blue coat an extravagant daub of color amidst mahogany walls and tables. By the slow swaying of his shoulders, off-rhythm with the train’s movements, Arthur deduces he’s well into a night of drinking.

“‘Scuse me,” Arthur says. “You Mr. Billy Midnight?”

The man launches himself out of his seat. He whips around to face Arthur and presses himself against the bar, already clutching a golden pistol. “Another one! Another,” he cries. His eyes are bloodshot with drink and fear.

Arthur backs up and puts his hands in the air. “Woah, mister. I don’t mean no harm. Just want to talk to you.”

A high shriek of laughter. “Sure, sure. That’s what they all say. All who come to kill Billy Midnight. They all come. They all _know._ ” His fingers dance on the trigger, and Arthur tenses.

“I mean no harm, Mr. Midnight. I just want to interview you. My friend is writing a book.”

Midnight wails loudly at this. “A book? A book about who? A coward, a liar. A murderer, a bastard. Oh, Rabbit. Rabbit, you slept so soundly. Will I live? Will I run, like you couldn’t? —yes, yes!” At this, he dashes to the right, out of the train car.

“Shit,” Arthur curses, and runs after him. 

He pursues Midnight through another two cabins, the passengers exclaiming in shock, and dodges stacks of luggage that the man upends at him. The train is moving far too quickly to safely jump off, so Midnight clambers onto the roof once he’s reached the last car. Arthur follows and finds himself facing a wildly gesticulating Midnight, who’s for some absurd reason put his pistol away.

“Draw!” Midnight yells. His thinning hair whips across his face as the train rushes on. “Draw! I’ll face you like a man. I’ll die like a man.”

“Calm down, sir. I only want to talk,” Arthur tries again.

“No one wants to talk. They want to kill. Kill a man in his sleep, they do. I do. Now, draw!”

Flaco was faster than Midnight, old and drunk as he is. Arthur flips his revolver up and shoots the pistol straight out of Midnight’s hand. 

“Augh!” Midnight clutches his hand. “No. No.” 

“Let’s talk now, alright?” Arthur lowers his gun and slowly approaches.

“No!” Midnight repeats. “No. Why should _I_ live on? I’ll sleep, too.” 

In one swift motion, Billy Midnight takes out a revolver and shoots himself in the head. 

“Goddamnit,” says Arthur.

The train rattles on toward Saint Denis.

.

The city is smog and swamp, a stifling factory of sin. Arthur flashes his deputy badge and tells the conductor to explain what happened to the city police, then quickly leaves the area. In need of a stiff drink, he wanders through the wakening streets and enters the first open saloon he encounters, the early hour be damned.

The barkeep doesn’t judge, just takes his coin and slides over a tumbler of whiskey. Arthur nurses it as he rifles through the papers he lifted from Midnight’s body. He didn’t actually rob him (no matter how valuable that gold pocket watch seemed), conscious that the police might grow suspicious of the nature of the suicide. But he did take his gun and the various notes on his body in hopes that they might be more illuminating than the man’s crazed dialogue.

It’s mostly letters — death threats and angry rants. _I’ll hunt you down and leave you face down in the dirt like a dog_ , and _Honor means nothing anymore because of the likes of you._ It seems that Billy Midnight shot Rabbit Matthews in his sleep, not a glorious, career-making duel, and the people who knew about it were intent on making Midnight suffer. In Arthur’s opinion, Midnight made himself suffer more than they could’ve ever hoped for.

Arthur can’t help but wonder if he’ll end up like Midnight someday. He’s stabbed and shot men in the back, slit their throats when they slept. He’s robbed folk who didn’t deserve it, plenty of them, no matter what Dutch says. It’s very possible that Arthur, too, will be lost in a nightmare of paranoia and guilt, lamenting his sins in a bottle, riding trains in circles to run from his past. He doesn’t consciously register taking out his sketchbook and beginning to recreate Midnight’s visage, but before he knows it, he ends up with a vivid drawing of the man in his last moments, eyes shaded dark with despair, hysteria etched into the distorted lines of his face.

“I recognize this style.” A strange man with a curlicue mustache slides into the seat beside him, interrupting his reverie. His accent is thick and undeniably French. “Who are you, monsieur?”

Arthur closes the sketchbook and scowls. “Mind your own business.”

“Ah, but I am, for all art is my business. My name is Charles Châtenay, a painter from Paris,” he says with a dramatic flourish. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“A painter?” Arthur is intrigued. He hasn’t met any other artists besides Albert Mason, who only sorta counted. “All the way from France?”

“Yes, indeed. I am exiled from the city. They said I cannot paint, cannot draw. That my existence is a lewd blemish on society, like a birthmark on a lady’s bum! A whole ass, I am.” 

“What kind of art you make that gets you kicked out of Paris?” As far as Arthur knows, France is a land of loose morals and looser women. 

“Buy me a drink and I shall share it with you,” Châtenay bargains. 

Arthur huffs. “Ah, why not? Barkeep, another round here.” 

The barkeep pours them both glasses of whiskey. “Earlier morning than usual for you, Mr. Châtenay,” he remarks. 

“It is still night for me, _monsieur_. I have been awake painting, struck by inspiration!” He leers suggestively. “Struck many times. She was very fierce.”

“You’re gonna get yourself in a heap of trouble one day, Mr. Châtenay.” The barkeep shakes his head. “Enjoy your drinks, fellas.”

“Thanks.” Arthur says. “Cheers, Mr. Châtenay.”

“Ah, but wait. I cannot toast with a man whose name I do not know, hm? It would be improper.”

“Didn’t you get kicked out of Paris for being improper?”

“That’s a different matter. My art pushes the boundaries of this dreadful society, but I have _manners._ Principles!” he declares. “Now, I did not forget that drawing. I know I have seen your art elsewhere.”

Of all people to know his secret, Arthur supposes a fellow artist, and an eccentric Frenchman to boot, would be the best choice. “I had a picture in some arts magazine,” he admits. “It was under the name Thomas Floyd, but don’t call me that.”

“Oh, Monsieur Floyd! I knew it. I knew I recognized the brilliance,” Châtenay says gleefully.

“ _Don’t_ call me that. My name is Arthur Callahan.” 

“I see, I see. A private man. Why do you hide behind your work?” 

Arthur lowers his voice. There isn’t anyone around except the barkeep, who’s wiping tables at the far end of the room, but he doesn’t want to chance it. “I’m not exactly a… upstanding citizen.”

Châtenay nods. “Say no more, Monsieur Callahan. It is a shame, though, that you cannot take pride in your work in public. Yours was the only piece in that stuffy magazine that had any spirit. It was gruesome, raw. The bloody death of man, perfected. Painful to look at, yet you cannot look away! Like the drawing you were doing just now.”

“It was alright,” Arthur concedes. 

“More than! I am thrilled to meet the man behind it. Come now, let us drink.” He raises his glass. “ _À la nôtre_.”

Arthur dutifully clinks the glass. “Cheers.” 

Hours later, he’s drunk as a skunk and lying belly-up on a sofa in Châtenay’s studio. There’s a disturbing number of off-colored stains on it that he pointedly ignores.

Châtenay’s face enters his swimming vision. “Are you ready, _monsieur_?” 

Arthur smacks his lips. “What for, ‘gain?”

“Painting, of course. Painting!” He grabs Arthur by the arm to wrench him off the sofa. The room spins, and Arthur topples onto the floor. “Up, now. You’ve laid there long enough. Sloth is an artist’s greatest enemy!”

“I thought that it was close-minded idiots,” Arthur groans.

“We have many greatest enemies,” Châtenay says, his tone making it evident that this is an obvious fact of life.

With some more wrangling and verbal abuse, Châtenay manages to get Arthur seated in front of an easel, paint brush in one hand. The palette, on a side table, is smeared with globs of colors.

“I don’t know how to paint,” Arthur asserts.

“Bah, it is not so different from drawing. You have the gift. Now go, create!” 

Arthur sits and just breathes for a few minutes as he tries to sober up. The world is still foggy, but his hands grow steady. “Alright. Alright,” he says. 

He paints. Broad, flat strokes for the background. Swift lines, thick, shaping a figure. Dabs of vivid color for detail. Châtenay was wrong — it is nothing like sketching. It is _better_ , more visceral. The blank spaces speak to him, begging for depth. Noon breaks, twilight falls. Arthur does not stop to eat except for a tray of crackers Châtenay provides, and he finishes the canvas as night is properly setting in.

Châtenay, uncharacteristically silent, has been observing the whole time. He comes close when Arthur puts the brushes down and steps back to look.

It is a hanged man, his body painted in pale yellow tones, nearly white, against a murky brown background, shaded almost black at places. His head is hooded, slumped. Unidentifiable. It could be anyone Arthur knows. Could be him.

“Singularly ghastly,” Châtenay says quietly. “You really do have a gift.”

When Arthur looks at it, he sees the amateurish of the brushstrokes, the imprecision of the lighting. Yet he also understands, a bit, what Châtenay means. It’s hard to believe he created something so frightfully haunting. He rather doesn’t want to look at it. 

“I think I’d best be on my way, Mr. Châtenay,” Arthur says. “Thank you for your hospitality. You can keep the painting.”

He grabs his things and leaves, ignoring Châtenay’s protests. It’s time to go home.

.

_M. Callahan,_

_What a delight it was to meet you! Do not fear what your hands can create. It is a God-given gift and talent! I will keep the painting you created safe, for its inception was a moment of great history!_

_How electrifying to witness a visionary grasping his agent of change for the first time! It is Baudelaire picking up the pen! It is Napoleon at the war counsel! I welcome you to my studio any time. No, in fact, you must return. We must paint together. It is the birth of a genius partnership, indeed. 45 Montmartre St, No. 12. I will see you there soon, or I fear this city of morons will fall into further ruin if it never again sees your art!_

_Charles Châtenay_

.

Hosea has a job for him when he returns. They cut a deal with the Braithwaite matriarch, the meanest hag Arthur has ever met, to undermine the Grays’ saloon by handing out free booze. Unfortunately for Arthur, his face is exceptionally familiar to many patrons of the parlor house, so Hosea makes him wear a bag over his head and says, “Alas, poor Fenton. Too dumb and ugly to even look at!” 

Dutch and Hosea are having too much fun getting in between the Braithwaites and the Grays; a long series of jobs follow after that. He helps John and Javier steal Braithwaite horses for a measly $700, almost getting shot in the process. Then he sets the Grays’ tobacco fields ablaze with Sean. He and Charles track down Trelawney, and Arthur nearly gets strangled to death. It’s too many close brushes with death in too short a time span. 

When things finally do cool down, it’s after they rob Cornwall _again,_ this time accidentally, due to Uncle’s foolishness. Dutch is clearly gleeful about slighting the man, but he does agree with Arthur and Hosea that it’s better to lay low for a while after that. No need to lead Cornwall’s men or the Pinkertons, who at this point seem they might be on Cornwall’s payroll anyway, to them. The stress drains from him as the chaos of the past few weeks lulls. He’s getting old, and this life isn’t the same anymore. The adrenaline pumps more slowly, the rush of power isn’t quite so thrilling, the pride doesn’t come bursting out as it used to.

His hands itch for a brush. To create art despite the remembrance of that grim painting. The day after Dutch gives the instruction for things to quiet down, Arthur prepares to ride to Saint Denis. He checks Artemisia’s shoes and brushes out her mane, murmuring reassurances more to quell his own nerves than hers.

“Excuse...Excuse me, Mr. Morgan?” Kieran says meekly. 

Arthur turns to him. What with all the action going on, Arthur hasn’t seen the kid much. It seems the distance has made him fearful of Arthur again, as the kid is fidgeting and staunchly avoiding eye contact. This bothers Arthur more than he’d like.

“Kieran,” Arthur acknowledges, a bit cold.

“Could I speak with you? In, uh, in private, sir?”

Arthur glances at the pasture around them. Nothing but horses. “This seems private enough.”

“...Alright.” Kieran says, hushed anyway, “Mr. Morgan, you know I..I like Mary-Beth, right?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Don’t got time for jokes right now, kid.” He puts the brush back in Artemisia’s saddlebag and prepares to mount her.

“I’m not joking, mister! I’m not joking,” he repeats, quieter, when Arthur pauses. “I just. Do you and Mary-Beth have something going on?”

“Me and Miss Gaskill?” Arthur says incredulously. Then, he considers their clandestine business meetings at the lakeshore, in which they can sit for up to an hour discussing Thomas Floyd’s latest commissions, sometimes conducted at night if the camp is too busy. Arthur smirks. Might as well mess with the kid a bit. “Well, Kieran, I’m afraid you’ve caught me. Miss Gaskill and I have been carryin’ on a secret affair.”

Kieran’s eyes widen. He steps back as if struck and his mouth opens, then closes, as he’s rendered speechless.

“It’s really thanks to you, kid. You opened my eyes, made me see how lovely a woman she is,” Arthur continues, relishing the dawning horror on Kieran’s face. “Hope this doesn’t get between us.”

There’s a moment where fury blisters in the kid’s eyes and his brows draw down hard. But it fades, leaving behind only the sad curve of defeat on his lips. “...No. It won’t, Mr. Morgan,” he says hollowly. 

Arthur can’t take it anymore. He bursts out laughing, loud and ungainly.

“That’s — there’s no need to g-gloat,” Kieran stammers in outrage.

“Oh, kid, I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist. You’re too easy to mess with,” Arthur guffaws. “I got nothin’ romantic goin’ on with Miss Gaskill. We’re just doing some business together.”

“Aw, Mr. Morgan. C’mon,” Kieran groans. He flushes bright red in embarrassment. “Why you gotta tease me? You know how serious I am ‘bout her.”

“Boy, do I ever. You really think I’d go after her after spending months listenin’ to you pining?” Arthur drops his head, affecting shame and hurt. “You think so lowly of me. Breaks my damn heart.”

“No, sir, I don’t think that, no, you’re,” Kieran stops when he sees Arthur’s hidden smile, “you’re messing with me again.”

Arthur hoots with laughter. “You’re finally gettin’ it. You forget how to handle my teasin’?” 

“We ain’t spoken for weeks,” Kieran mumbles. 

“Well, I’ve been busy.” Arthur reads the tension in the kid’s shoulders, notes the scrape on his cheek and the way he favors one side, even standing. The covert agreement around camp is that Kieran is Arthur’s ward. Without him around, maybe he hasn’t been faring so well with the less accepting members. Micah and Bill, even Sadie, who still spits at Kieran’s feet whenever they cross paths. 

“You wanna go fishing with me?” Arthur says. Saint Denis and Charles Châtenay can wait until tomorrow.

“Fishing? That…that sounds great. Now, Mr. Morgan?”

“Yea, now. Get going, we ain’t got all day,” Arthur says, even though they do. “And kid, just call me Arthur.”

Kieran smiles. “Alright, Arthur.”

Tomorrow, Arthur thinks he’ll try to paint Kieran and that smile. Try his hand at capturing some earnest happiness, some light, instead of the bloody violence in this world.

.

_Mr. Levin,_

_I am writing to you with my pictures of Billy Midnight and Black Belle and Mr. Floyd’s last drawings. Billy Midnight was apparently a fraud. He shot Rabbit Matthews while he was asleep. When I tried to interview him, he went crazy and tried to shoot me, and then he shot himself. I got a whole lot of nothing from him about Calloway. Sorry. I’m sending you lots of pictures of dead bodies._

_Black Belle actually talked to me, but she said “Little Boy” Calloway was a coward and ran a lot from fights. She said no respectable gunslinger would talk to the papers about their exploits. Got a pretty nice picture of her, though._

_It’s too bad none of them had anything good (or anything at all, I guess) to say about Calloway. Good luck with your book. Hope it makes some money for us._

_Arthur Callahan_

.

_To Miss Mary Woodhouse,_

_On behalf of_ The American Magazine of Art _, the pioneer and premier literature magazine of the United States of America, I would like to invite your client Mr. Thomas Floyd to draw the cover art of next quarter’s issue._

 _Like many, I first saw Mr. Floyd’s work in_ The Southern Arts Journal, _but have since crossed paths with a number of writers, society figures, and businessmen who have commissioned Mr. Floyd. Furthermore, I am a faithful reader of Mr. Elliot Blake’s work, and Mr. Floyd’s pieces in_ The Wind Sings Across America _touched all of us at AMA. We believe Mr. Floyd has revived within American art a visceral, emotional quality that the twilight era of impressionism lacks. His work would be perfect for our next issue, which explores how art is transforming at the turn of the 20th century._

_Our magazine’s sponsors spare no expense when it comes to the quality of our publication, and would pay $50 for the job. Please let me know if Mr. Floyd is interested._

_Respectfully,_

_Samuel Douglas_

.

“Arthur, wait up!”

Arthur stops his horse and looks over his shoulder to see John hiking himself atop Old Boy. “What’re you up to, Marston?”

“I’m heading into the city. Let’s ride together.” 

“How do you know _I’m_ goin’ there?” 

John, ever the brat, rolls his eyes. “You ain’t that sneaky, old man. Everyone knows you’ve been slumming it there recently. God knows why, though,” he adds, grimacing. “Foul fuckin’ place.”

“It is, and I ain’t tryin’ to babysit your dumb ass there.”

“And I weren’t plannin’ on hanging around you when we get there. But we’re going the same way, so let’s just ride.” 

“Fine, fine.”

“Jeez, if I knew it was gonna be like pullin’ teeth...” John grumbles.

The day is pale and early, the sun hidden behind the horizon. Neither one of them is much for small talk, and they ride in somewhat uncomfortable silence. Even after all these years, their interactions are strained by Arthur’s lingering resentment toward John’s sabbatical. Arthur has kept their relationship professional, and rather unpleasantly caustic. The distance would make it easier on him. If John left again, he wouldn’t have to wrestle with the transient, tenuous nature of what he believed to be a lifelong bond, with the knowledge that Arthur is never enough to keep anyone around.

They pass the bridge into the city, and Arthur contemplates the scars on John’s cheek under the fading lamplight. Pink and shiny, cutting jagged lines through his scruff. How close was John to getting ripped apart by wolves? The possibility haunts Arthur all too often. The bloody death of man, Châtenay had said. Arthur thinks of fools in the snow, trudging after a would-be corpse, holding his shivering body. 

When they come to a stop by the stables, Arthur asks, a peace offering, “So, Marston, what are you doin’ in the city?” 

John looks askance at him. “What are _you_ doing?”

Damn kid has always been dense. “No need to get touchy. Just if you’re plannin’ on staying ‘til evening, I figured we could get a drink.”

“Oh.” John goes quiet for a minute too long. Nervous irritation wrings knots in Arthur’s stomach. Then, John says: “Yeah. I could use a drink.”

Arthur exhales. “We can grab some dinner, too. I know a good spot for both.” 

Well, good was a strong word for Doyle’s Tavern, where he and Châtenay drank between painting sessions. At least it didn’t have rats. 

John agrees to meet him across from the tavern at six o’clock, and they part ways. Arthur heads to his usual destination: Châtenay’s studio, a tiny apartment whose various rooms have been taken over by canvases, paints. The kitchenette, with coffee grounds and bottles scattered about its counters, is the only intact part. Châtenay doesn’t even have a mattress to sleep on — just that stained red loveseat in the center of what should be the living room. Arthur supposes the state of the lodgings doesn’t matter much, since the man spends each night in a different woman’s bed.

“Monsieur Callahan, back so soon,” Châtenay greets, ever pleased to see him. “No more opera singers to accost?”

Arthur balks. Somehow, Châtenay always manages to catch him off guard. “Excuse me? Opera, I — what d’you know about that?”

“Nothing more than what I read in the papers, friend. And what drama! It was excellent inspiration. Come, come.” Châtenay scurries over to the easel by the bedroom window. “Your singer, hm?”

It is, indeed, a rather striking likeness of the opera singer Arthur and Trelawney robbed not long ago. She’s seated atop a stagecoach, nude but for a yellow shawl draping over her shoulders and falling down to her lap, and her mouth is delicately open, caught in the midst of song. 

“That’s not exactly what she was wearin’,” Arthur comments.

“No, or your robbery might have gone differently.” 

Arthur chuckles and strides over to an easel in the corner of the room, which he has come to think of as his own station. He has his own brushes, paints and palette, blank canvases and filled ones from the frequent visits he’s made in the weeks past. Châtenay refuses to accept rent contributions from him, especially after Arthur saved him from getting shot by an enraged husband (or two), but Arthur at least pitches in to purchase more than his fair share of supplies.

Today, he is working on a painted version of the portrait of John. It is one of the first pieces he started, and he’s revisited it often as his skills have improved. Adding texture to the blood, fixing the light cast across John’s cheekbones. Châtenay has not offered Arthur much instruction in regards to painting, citing that it would interfere with the development of his own style, but he has provided a number of photos and references. Arthur has painted everything from still life scenes to portraits to the brick buildings of Saint Denis, just beyond the window. A few, he thought were decent. Most of them get stacked by the wall, discarded, though Châtenay bodily prevents Arthur from actually throwing them away.

The two paint. Châtenay is soundless as he works, shedding his ebullient persona in favor of unpretentious focus. For lunch, they sweep aside the mess on the kitchen counters and sit on top to eat bread and cheese. More of a snack, in Arthur’s opinion, but Châtenay prioritizes only three things: fucking, painting, and drinking. Together, they’ve done an outrageous amount of the latter two.

“You heard of _The American Magazine of Art_ before?” Arthur asks mid-chew.

“Of course. A very esteemed publication even in Europe,” Châtenay says disdainfully. “Old hats and old money, wholly unimaginative.”

“Is there some magazine you actually approve of?”

Châtenay sniffs and swipes an open bottle of brandy off the counter, takes a long swig. It’s answer enough.

“They asked me to do the next cover,” Arthur tells him, then immediately recoils as Châtenay spits out a mouthful of brandy at him. “Jesus!”

Châtenay absently tosses him a rag. It nearly hits him in the face. “The _cover_ ? _Sacre bleu._ ” 

“I’m not sure about it. Don’t want Thomas Floyd gettin’ too much publicity.” Arthur’s artist persona is just supposed to be a side gig.

“ _Tais-toi!_ Idiot! Moron! Of course you will do it,” Châtenay declares. He flits over to the cabinets and emerges with a new bottle of wine. “We toast to this opportunity. Yes, you will do it, don’t be stupid. Open this, I will find glasses.” Châtenay hands him the bottle and a corkscrew before beginning to upend the rest of the kitchen. Scraps of paper, old sketches and messy shopping lists, flutter with the activity.

“Uh,” Arthur examines the wine opener, “I’ve never used one of these before.”

“Easy to figure out,” Châtenay says, his voice muffled from underneath the sink, “Wine is accessed like all the fine pleasures in life. Thrust the pointy end in, and move!”

Arthur jabs the screw inside the cork and twists it in. He’s fumbling with the lever when Châtenay whisks it away and takes over, effortlessly popping the cork out and pouring wine into two large, curved glasses like an expert sommelier. “Americans,” he scoffs. He shoves a glass into Arthur’s hand. “Should we wait for it to air? Bah, no, enjoy! _À la vôtre!_ ”

“I still ain’t sure about taking the job.” 

Châtenay groans, exasperated. “Listen. This is a fantastic opportunity. Their silly magazine is respected across the world, but all they have published for decades is boring paintings of mountains and _ponds_ ,” he spits the word like it’s a curse.

“You don’t like my mountain paintings?”

“They are…passable. Your portraits are better.” Châtenay huffs. “That is not the point. This cover could change the direction of art forever! Inspire people to inject emotion and color at last. If we are lucky, they will interview you, too.”

“An interview? That ain’t happenin’.” 

“You can do it by letters. It is no big matter,” Châtenay says dismissively. “You have to think bigger than yourself. This is _culture_ . This is the world, _humanity_.”

“Having Thomas Floyd become known across the globe sounds like a recipe for disaster. I’m a wanted man, Mr. Châtenay. Thousands of dollars for my head,” Arthur admits.

“Then Thomas Floyd can stay faceless, unknown. It is better that way, perhaps. People love a good mystery. You take your cautions, and you will be famous, but never found.” Châtenay lifts his glass again. “You will do it. Cure these feeble-minded fools.”

Arthur hesitates. For all his friend’s passion, Arthur himself doesn’t care much about the world’s culture or art or anything. He’s just here to make some cash and protect the people he cares about. There’s a lot at risk for some magazine cover. 

“If you must, think of the _profits_ the attention will bring,” Châtenay persists. “Commissions left and right! Paint portraits and raise the prices. Idiots will pay hundreds, I promise.”

The idea of selling paintings for that much is quite appealing. Dutch has been antsy lately about grinding out more cash. He’s been getting on Strauss’s back about expanding the lending business, as it’s their only low-profile form of income. Luckily, this means Micah, Strauss’s new attack dog, is away from camp more often; the man is downright chipper doing the job Arthur used to balk at. But the lending isn’t enough money, Dutch knows it, and he’s made sure the rest of them know it, too. He’s given numerous speeches about the urgency of acquiring cash, even as he warns them all to lay low and let things cool off. It’s a wonder no one’s head spun off listening to him.

No one in camp is truly equipped to make money without causing a commotion. Good, honest work just isn’t in their skillset.

However, maybe it could be in Arthur’s.

“Alright, I’ll do the damn cover,” Arthur says. “Let’s drink.”

“ _Oui, voila!_ Drink!”

.

Arthur is nursing a buzz (he doesn’t like wine much, but Châtenay had insisted they drink the entire bottle) when he meets John. It being summer, the day is still light, but the sun is smothered by the perpetual smog. John, leaning against a wood pillar and smoking a cigarette, fits right into the grimy tones of the city. Arthur takes a moment to note lighting, the dust motes floating in the dim evening rays, the washed color of the red wall behind him. 

“Finally,” John says when he notices Arthur. “I’ve been waiting forever.”

“It ain’t even six yet.” Arthur checked his pocket watch before he left the studio.

“I finished my business early. Where we eating? I’m starving.”

Arthur nods at the worn-down building across the street: Jim’s Oyster Joint. 

“Oysters? Damn, we’re fancy now,” John snorts.

“Not around these parts. They got oysters fallin’ out their pockets.”

“Really? Who’d have thought.”

Jim recognizes Arthur, a fair tipper, and sits them at a private table in the back. They order beers and two plates of oysters, served baked with melted cheese and spinach. 

“Never had an oyster.” John picks up one and examines it warily.

“Just eat it. Ain’t poisonous,” Arthur says. 

John sets it down, takes a pull of his sweating beer instead. “Owner knows you. You here a lot?”

Arthur shrugs. He’s picked up a taste for these sorts of rich meals. It’s a surprising vice. “I come ‘round every now and then.”

“So that’s what you’ve been doing in the city? Just...hanging out and eating oysters?” John’s tone wavers between accusatory and amused. Then, his lips thin and he goes with the first one: “I thought you were working. Drummin’ up leads for the gang or makin’ money somehow. But you’re just indulging in the good city life?”

Maybe it’s the wine; Arthur’s body acts of his volition. His arm shoots across the table and he grabs a fistful of John’s shirt, dragging John partway across the table. A beer clatters loudly to the ground. “What’s your fuckin’ problem, Marston? I’m tryin’ to, to fix things between us, and you’re just running your mouth making me angry? You want me to put my fist down your throat?”

“Fuck you,” John hisses, equally vitriolic, “Fuck you if you think a plate of shellfish can fix the fact that you _hate_ me, that you been actin’ like I’m scum on the bottom of your shoe for fuckin’ _years._ ”

“Like I didn’t have the goddamn right? Like you didn’t up and leave us?” Arthur growls.

“Why do you even give a shit if I left? You were about to let me die on that mountain. Don’t go acting like you care.” He shoves Arthur’s arm off and stands up, nearly knocking the table over. “Fuck off. Ain’t nothin’ to fix here.”

John stalks out of the restaurant. Arthur follows him, seeing red. He catches up to John, who’s halfway to his horse, grabs him by the shoulder and socks him square in the jaw.

“Fuck!” John staggers to the side, but he recovers quickly. He bounces up and punches Arthur in the ribs, and takes advantage of Arthur keeling over to tackle him to the ground. They grapple in the middle of the street, throwing wild punches and jabs, paying no heed to the various bystanders. It’s stupid, utterly stupid, with the bounties on their heads. 

Arthur has his fist drawn back, about to give John a complete set of black eyes, when strong arms wrench him off the kid. Arthur tumbles backwards and lands on his ass. John tries to scrabble after him, taking advantage, but the same set of arms send him flying back into the dirt.

“Fellas, that’s enough,” Jim from the oyster joint says. He’s a huge man, bearlike and stocky. He once told Arthur that he fought a gator with his bare hands and won, and Arthur believes him.

John spits to the side. His lip is split open, and the dripping saliva is red with blood. “He started it,” John says, scowling.

Arthur laughs, and the anger leaves him as quickly as it came. He says, jocular, “Just like the old days. Always blamin’ me for trouble.”

“Only ‘cause it’s usually your fault,” John retorts. A smile tugs at his lips and stretches the cut.

Jim shakes his head. “Get inside and finish your food. I ain’t lettin’ you two idiots waste good oysters like that.”

Arthur glances at John, who shrugs. John says, “I guess I should at least try one.”

They follow Jim back to their table. The other patrons barely cast a sideways look; they’re a rough crowd. 

“I’ll get you two new beers. No more brawling,” Jim orders. He throws a cloth at them before he goes, a clear suggestion to clean up.

John takes it and wipes the blood from his face. His eye is swelling up real ugly, and his lip is already puffy. Arthur imagines he doesn’t look much better. Blood has dripped from his nose onto the table.

“Thanks,” Arthur says when John tosses the cloth to him. It’s already soaked scarlet, but Arthur isn’t choosy.

“Sure.” John gingerly picks up an oyster and inspects it. His suspicion is back, inexorable. Childlike, as always, when it comes to new things.

Arthur pinches the cloth over his nose. “Y’know, nothing’s changed, huh?” His words come out nasally.

“What d’you mean?”

“It’s just like when you were a kid. We’d pick fights and knock each other’s teeth out, then Hosea or Dutch would come in and pull us off each other. Two minutes later, it’s like nothin’ even happened.” Arthur grins. Those were simpler times.

John mirrors his expression, bloody teeth at odds with the relaxed cheer in his eyes. “Yeah, bet you felt real good beating on a kid ten years younger than you, huh?”

“Bet you feel real good beatin’ up an old man now.”

“So you admit you’re an old man, old man?”

Arthur throws the soiled rag at John, and it hits him in the face. John sputters.

“Only if you’re still just a boy, _boy_ ,” Arthur says.

They’re both laughing when Jim, shaking his head, comes back with the beers. Arthur leaves him a large tip.

Later that night, they’re piss drunk and sharing a smoke on some rooftop. Arthur can’t quite remember how or why they got up there, but it’s high enough that it seems to cut above the smog and smoke. The black sky stretches out before them, looming over Saint Denis, the moon a glowing pearl.

“Marston,” Arthur starts. John turns to him, questioning, shoulders loose with drink. Softer, Arthur says, “John. I never hated you.” He takes a long drag and considers his next words. “I never hated you, and I never could. If you had died to those wolves, it would have haunted me the rest of my sorry life.”

John holds his gaze, and Arthur watches the uncertainty unfold in the dip of his brow. John says, “Were you going to leave me up there?”

“I thought about it. I was real angry, like I’ve never been, for a long time,” Arthur admits. “But no. I reckon I would’ve come for you even if Abigail hadn’t begged me. I don’t have it in me to abandon family like that.”

“Family, huh?”

“Family,” Arthur says. He slings an arm around John’s shoulders and tugs him in close. “I’m sorry for treating you the way I did — wasn’t fair. You’re my brother. I’ll always have your back. ”

“You too, Arthur. And uh, I’m sorry too, I guess. For leavin’ like I did.”

“Ah, that’s alright. You came back, didn’t you?”

John looks off toward the city. “Yeah. I came back.” 

.

_To Mr. Douglas,_

_Please see attached a photograph of Mr. Floyd’s art for the cover of your magazine, as well as an additional piece to accompany the inside spread. I went to a professional photographer in Saint Denis to have them done, so I hope they are of suitable quality._

_Yours,_

_Miss Mary Woodhouse_

.

_Mr. Douglas,_

_I responded to your questions for the interview:_

_My momma taught me to draw when I was young. After she passed, I stopped for a while, but one of my mentors got me a journal to practice writing in. I started drawing plants and animals to keep track of them, and then I started drawing people and places that interested me. Just became a regular thing._

_Sketching is a good way to put down ideas quick. I mostly sketch for my personal journal nowadays. I like ink enough, but I think painting suits me best. I’m still learning, but there’s something amazing about all the colors. It’s hard to believe I can use them all._

_I don’t have any special thing or person that inspires me besides the world and people around me. There’s a lot of art in it. In them, I guess._

_My paintings don’t have a “cohesive theme” that I can talk about. People can take it as they will. I guess I’ll say that sometimes I’m surprised how awful and sad they are, and even more surprised when they’re not._

_My favorite artist is Charles Châtenay. Real talented guy._

_As for the future of art, I can’t say I know much about that. There’s a lot of people out there who are much better artists than me, and much smarter to boot. They could probably tell you all about where art is headed. I just know that I’ll keep drawing whatever is beautiful or terrible enough in this world for me to want to remember._

_I can’t answer the other questions for privacy reasons. Sorry._

_Thomas Floyd_

.

Arthur comes back from the Valentine bank robbery with $2,500, making all his previous fortunes seem paltry. Ever faithful, he puts $1,000 into the tithing box, then goes to Saint Denis to rent an apartment under the name Tacitus Kilgore. He takes Mary-Beth and Kieran, the latter only because he’s been directing pathetic puppy dog eyes worse than Cain’s at Arthur lately, and every few days will nervously ask if he can “help with you and Mary-Beth’s business, I’d be really happy to.” It would be more irritating if it wasn’t for the fact that sometimes Arthur looks at Kieran, so oddly timid despite all he’s gone through, so innocent, and thinks of what sort of man Isaac might have grown up to be. If he’d be kind and sweet, if he’d sneak horses apples yet starve himself, if he’d toss fish back more often than he kept them. Or if he’d be like Arthur.

Arthur makes Kieran swear on his life that he won’t ask any questions or open his mouth about the business to no one (“or I’ll roast you over the campfire like a stuck hog, understand?”), and allows him to ride to Saint Denis with them. Teasing the kid while he’s bright red and sweaty with Mary-Beth holding onto his back is just a bonus.

The apartment they find is a dinky studio right across the street from Doyle’s and Jim’s, right above where he and John’s blood is stained in the dirt. He forks over $700 for a year’s rent, a discounted price for the cash and upfront payment. The landlord smiles, thin and foxish like his mustache, and doesn’t ask questions.

Much like Châtenay, Arthur doesn’t bother with real furniture. Arthur lays a bedroll down in the corner and is ready to call it a day, but Mary-Beth smacks him on the arm and says he at least needs something to sit on. So Arthur buys them all dinner at Jim’s, and in the middle of the night, he and Kieran commandeer a few chairs from a patio area a few blocks down. Mary-Beth stands guard and bats her eyelashes to distract any unwanted onlookers, much to Kieran’s dismay. The whole operation goes so smoothly that they get greedy and pilfer a table from a nearby restaurant. Mary-Beth grabs the vase, too, and sets it atop the table with a flower when they’ve finished moving it into the studio. The yellow orchid beams at them.

“Just lovely,” Mary-Beth admires. “I hope Mr. Floyd will be satisfied.”

“I’m sure he will be,” says Arthur.

Still meek from Arthur’s threats, Kieran doesn’t ask them what exactly is going on until the next morning, when they’re sitting on the stolen chairs and taking breakfast.

Arthur says, “Go ahead, Mary-Beth,” and Mary-Beth enthusiastically explains the Thomas Floyd situation. 

“An artist? What’s he doing working with the likes of us?” is Kieran’s reaction.

Mary-Beth turns to Arthur for an answer. Arthur has none, so he growls at Kieran: “You don’t need to know.”

“A-Alright. Sorry.”

“Arthur, don’t wind him up like that,” Mary-Beth scolds. 

“Ah, the kid knows I’m jokin’. Right, Kieran?”

“Right,” Kieran says with a nervous laugh. Mary-Beth pats his arm, consoling. Arthur pats him, too, less consoling. Kieran relaxes at the touch anyway.

Arthur pays the two for their time and says he’ll meet them back at camp. They go, arm-in-arm, Kieran smiling so wide at the contact that it could about split his face in half. 

With the remains of the day, Arthur transports his supplies and paintings from Châtenay’s apartment (which was growing quite overcrowded). When the job is finished, Châtenay, as usual, insists they have a drink. To mourn a bygone era and celebrate a new one, he proclaims. After the two bottles of rum, Châtenay wanders off drunkenly toward one of his mistress’s houses, leaving Arthur, alone and exceptionally inebriated, to stumble back to his apartment. This was not how he thought his afternoon would turn out.

“Damn the French,” Arthur mutters, bracing himself on a lamppost for dear life. He searches the sidewalk for the name of the street.

“Mr. Callahan, is that you?”

Arthur turns too quickly to see who it is and promptly falls on his ass. A familiar fellow in a well-trimmed beard and sunhat bends down beside him.

“Mr. Mason,” Arthur says woozily. “What a surprise to see you here in, in civilization.”

“I could say the same to you.” Mason grabs around the waist and lifts him, manhandling him to a nearby bench. Arthur tries to assist with the process, but ends up knocking the poor man’s hat off.

“Where’re the bears chasin’ you? Or the cougars?”

“I’m afraid there are none today, sir. But I am foolishly going to the swamps tomorrow to photograph alligators,” Mason says goodnaturedly.

Arthur snorts. “‘Course you are.” He resists the urge to slump sideways into the bench. Where had Châtenay gotten that damn rum? It felt more like moonshine.

“Woah, there,” says Mason, propping him up. Apparently Arthur had not resisted so well. “Is there someplace I can take you?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout me. I’ll be fine.” Arthur leans his head back on the bench. The clouds shimmer and sway above him. “I’m just restin’ here a bit.”

“Resting, of course. Well, I suppose I’ll just rest here with you, then. Just as you saved me from the wolves, I cannot in good conscience abandon you to the predators of Saint Denis.”

“Don’t see no predators here.”

Mason settles in next to Arthur, makes himself comfortable. “They’re very good at camouflaging,” he says wryly.

The trolley rings loudly as it passes, and Arthur perks up, tracking it with his eyes. This street would make a fine painting. The trolley brings interesting motion, and the vivid fronds of the park across the way are a splash of color against the grey city. Yes, a mighty fine painting.

“A painting? I suppose it would,” Mason agrees. Arthur had not realized he’d said that aloud. “Your artist friend must be influencing you.”

“Yeah, guess so.” Arthur shakes himself a bit. “He has an apartment ‘round here that I can get to. No need to interrupt your whole day, Mr. Mason.”

“Oh, don’t worry—there was nothing to interrupt. I was merely running some errands. Nothing that can’t be done later.”

“Errands? For your gator huntin’?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Arthur jabs a finger at Mason. “Don’t forget the rifle cartridges.”

“No rifle cartridges, I’m afraid,” Mason says, amused. “Just more dry plates.”

“Plates?”

“Photography supplies. No need to sweat the details.”

Arthur hums consideringly. “Are you going to the art store you told me about?”

“Yes, actually,” says Mason, seeming pleased that he remembered. 

“Y’know, I was headed there, too. Let’s go.” Arthur stands up, wobbling a bit, and marches down the street before Mason can object. Mason hurries after him, arms hovering about Arthur’s back in case he falls. However, Arthur walks with the insistent determination of the truly drunk, and he stays upright.

“I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” Mason says as he follows, in addition to, “Look out for that stagecoach, good God,” but they make it to the art store in one piece. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Callahan,” the shopkeeper says, “and Mr. Mason. I was unaware you two knew one another.”

“Ah, Mr. Callahan has aided me in my photography a few times now. Is he a regular here?”

The shopkeeper nods primly. “Indeed, sir. He usually comes in with that odd French fellow though. Oh, Mr. Mason, I have your order in the back. Give me a moment.”

Arthur shuffles down toward the section packed with blank canvases. He’s well stocked-up on paints, but he goes through canvases all too quickly. He could use a new sketchbook, too, and some better brushes. He can afford it now.

“I really didn’t expect you would spend so much time in the city, Mr. Callahan,” remarks Mason, still hovering.

“Yeah, me neither. Still hate it here.”

“I can’t say I like it much myself.” Mason chuckles. “Although I’d say city life suits me much better, just as the wilderness suits you. What _are_ you doing here so often, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Uh, well,” Arthur scratches his beard, “I don’t know. Guess I’m just dumb enough to find some passion for something that isn’t…” He stops himself. He’s said enough. 

His response doesn’t really answer Mason’s question at all, but the man doesn’t pry. Arthur turns quiet, introspective. They pick up their respective supplies and Mason helps him carry the canvases to the apartment building.

“Thanks for your help,” Arthur says gruffly. It’s very odd for him to be the one thanking someone. He doesn’t like it much, feels the need to correct the balance of the universe. “You want me to come along your gator huntin’ trip tomorrow?”

“Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Naw, it’s no problem. ‘Sides, I’d like to see those photos. Can’t have you gettin’ eaten.”

Mason smiles. “Well, alright. Thank you, Mr. Callahan. I’ll meet you here in the morning, then.”

On their trip, Mason gifts him a picture of the wolves they encountered in West Elizabeth all those months ago. It’s sublime. 

Arthur stays an extra day in the city to paint it.

.

“There ya are, cowpoke. Finally decided to grace us with your presence,” Micah sneers when Arthur rides back into camp.

“Would’ve stayed away from you longer if I could,” Arthur calls back. He stalks toward his tent; he isn’t in the mood for Micah’s bullshit. Never is.

Micah pursues him, yapping, a dog with a bone. “C’mon, Morgan, I think it’s about high time you told the rest of us what you’re gettin’ up to in the city. You even brought the _O’Driscoll_ in on the job.”

Arthur steadfastly continues on his path, not even glancing at Micah as he talks. “I ain’t tellin’ you shit, so leave off. It’s business; it makes money. You don’t need to know any more than that.” 

“Oh, sure, but I’m mighty curious,” Micah steps in front of Arthur, leering. “Maybe I should have a nice chat with the O’Driscoll boy. I’m sure he’d just love to _open up_ to me.” He fingers his hunting knife.

Arthur grabs him by the throat with both hands and slams him up against a tree. “You stay the fuck away from that boy, hear me?”

Micah is laughing even as Arthur’s fingers tighten around his neck. Arthur relishes in the throb of Micah’s pulse underneath his hands, his thumb pressing into Micah’s windpipe. Arthur remembers all the other time he’s choked men to death, how horrible and how good it felt. It would feel so much better if he really hated them, like he hates Micah.

“Arthur!” Dutch’s barks. The sharp note of reprimand has Arthur releasing Micah and obediently stepping back. “What the hell are you doing?”

Arthur has no answer for him, or maybe too many answers. _I’m putting down a rabid dog. I’m getting rid of the piece of shit twisting your head since Blackwater. I’m doing what needs to be done._

He says nothing.

“Morgan’s losin’ it,” Micah drawls. His voice is raspy, choked, and visceral satisfaction jolts through Arthur. “The city madness got to him.”

Dutch puts a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and squeezes, punishingly hard. He steers Arthur away; Micah is snickering like a hyena in the background. “Come here, son. There’s no excuse for behaving like this. You’re not a boy anymore.”

Arthur’s hands are still shaking. He certainly feels like a boy — dumb, an angry brute, the same snarling kid Dutch found him as. It’s hard to believe that hours prior, he was painting the delicate strokes of a wolf’s coat.

“You’re not a boy, Arthur,” Dutch repeats. With another painful squeeze, he makes Arthur look him in the eye. “I know you two have had your problems, but Micah is one of us. You have to let it go.”

“Micah is,” Arthur starts, has to start again. The rage has made his tongue impotent. “He’s unstable, Dutch. Unreliable, unpredictable. He’s made a violent mess of every job he’s been on. He’s…”

Disappointment flashes in Dutch’s eyes. It’s a look that Arthur is all too familiar with recently, but it doesn’t hurt any less. “Son. From where I’m standing, it doesn’t look like Micah’s the unstable one.”

Arthur’s next words die in his throat. He withers, too, shoulders hunching; his head bows. Dutch is right. Hadn’t Arthur been the one strangling a man in the middle of camp?

“Let it go. We need to have a unified front and keep morale high. You understand that at least, right? You’ll help me out with that?”

“...Yeah. I’m sorry, Dutch.” 

Dutch releases his shoulders. Arthur will have finger-shaped bruises later, yet when Dutch pats him on the back, affectionate, Arthur can’t help but lean into it. 

“That’s my boy,” Dutch says, smiling. “Now, how about you prove it on this next job? Micah said Pearson ran into some O’Driscoll’s…”

.

_To Mr. Samuel Douglas,_

_Thank you for sending a copy of the latest issue of your magazine. I am very pleased that Mr. Floyd’s artwork was such a critical success, and that the venerable people of the art community enjoyed his interview._

_Unfortunately, Mr. Floyd is busy with a family emergency and cannot personally convey his gratitude for all you have done._

_Yours,_

_Miss Mary Woodhouse_

.

Colm’s slimy voice, victorious. Pain lancing through his shoulder, then his stomach, his ribs. Everywhere.

They kick at his head. Arthur cradles his hands instead, and doesn’t make a sound.

.

_To Mr. Paul Laurent,_

_Your offer to house an exhibition of Mr. Floyd’s work is extremely generous. I have heard many wonderful things about the Galerie Laurent. Unfortunately, Mr. Floyd is currently quite ill and may be unable to resume his work for quite some time. The doctors are unsure when he will wake, but I ask that you join me in praying for his swift recovery._

_I hope that you will still be amenable to a partnership once Mr. Floyd recovers._

_Thank you for your understanding._

_Yours,_

_Miss Mary Woodhouse_

.

He gets out with blood on his palms, in his mouth. Teeth, knife-sharp. He spits out a chunk of ear. The O’Driscoll who first took him, who sneered and put a boot to his ribs. In the woods, he puts his fingers through the man’s eyes.

The rest of them are unseeing around a fire. Arthur didn’t scream — but they do.

.

_Dear Mr. Callahan,_

_It has been a while since we have last written. I hope you are doing well. If you are in the Saint Denis area, would you come meet Mr. Calloway and me? We have been spending our days gambling on a riverboat. Well, he has been gambling. I have been diligently recording the details of his life, much aided by the notes you provided._

_I have one last request for you before the book may be complete. Please come meet us to witness the final chapter of Jim “Boy” Calloway’s story._

_A small digression: Your friend Mr. Floyd is becoming quite the figure in the art community. I saw his work for_ AMA _— it was an absolutely resplendent portrait. A number of the Saint Denis high society have been chattering about commissioning him for portraits. The prices have gotten up to $500!_

_I suppose that sketch you sold me for $5 is probably worth a lot more now, but I think I will enjoy keeping it for myself._

_Best Regards,_

_Theodore Levin_

.

“Arthur? Oh god. Dutch! Miss Grimshaw! Reverend! Come quick!”

.

_M. Callahan,_

_I grow concerned that you have not visited. Weeks with no sign of your unkempt beard, your beastly American accent! I thought perhaps that after the magazine (thank you for the mention; I am now hounded by the vile folk of this city for work), you had been drawn into the crushing and soulless depths of society and abandoned your original friend, your partner. But after I broke into your studio and saw everything as dusty and untouched as an old woman’s vagina, I knew something was very wrong. I grow sober with worry. I have not touched liquor in days. I have touched too many women, if there is such a thing!_

_Write to me so that I know you are not dead! For if you are dead, there is nothing left for me in this forsaken, whoreish city._

_Charles Châtenay_

.

“My dear boy… I should have come for you.”

Arthur wakes. He isn’t sure if he dreamed the words.

.

_To Mr. Paul Laurent,_

_I am thrilled to inform you that not only has Mr. Floyd made a full recovery, but also that he is very much interested in holding an exhibit in your gallery. However, Mr. Floyd is a very private man and wishes to remain fully anonymous. He would not attend the gallery opening or exhibit in any capacity._

_If you find this acceptable, please write back and we may proceed with planning the event._

_Yours,_

_Miss Mary Woodhouse_

.

Mary-Beth tells Arthur upfront when he wakes up, after more than two weeks of fevered unconsciousness, that she knows he is really Thomas Floyd, and there’s no need to keep up the charade with her anymore; it just needlessly complicates things, especially with the art exhibit coming up. Arthur isn’t exactly surprised by this. They’ve long been tongue-in-cheek when referring to Thomas Floyd as his “artist friend”.

Contrary to Mary-Beth’s letter, Arthur is still bedridden and without full operation of his left shoulder, so he leaves Mary-Beth to do the brunt of the work. She wants to conscript Lenny, of all people, to help her with planning the event and meeting the gallery owner. 

“Lenny?” Arthur says incredulously when she asks Arthur’s permission to include him. 

“Yes, Lenny. I know a lot of the folk down south aren’t too friendly to him, but the city is different. They’re more progressive there. Apparently, they have two black councilmen.” 

“Sure, I believe you, but why _Lenny_?” To Arthur, Lenny is just a kid, eager and quick on the trigger. He’s a good shooting partner, for sure — Arthur hasn’t forgotten their gun heist from the Lemoyne Raiders — but he hasn’t proven himself anything else. “He’s not exactly a conman or actor, like Hosea.”

“Well, I would ask Hosea, but you vetoed that.” Mary-Beth puts her hands on her hips. “Besides, Lenny doesn’t need to con his way through anything. He’s good with words and he knows polite society better than any of the rest of us. His father was a lawyer or some fancy occupation like that.”

“I didn’t know that. Lenny in polite society…” Arthur remembers their wild night at the Valentine saloon. “It’s hard to imagine.”

“No need to imagine it. I’ll report to you all the details,” Mary-Beth says. “I think we should tell him the truth about Thomas Floyd, too.”

“I ain’t so sure about that. He’ll go runnin’ straight to Hosea.”

“Again, what’s so bad about that?” Mary-Beth huffs when Arthur gives her a stern look. “Fine, I’ll drop it. Anyway, Lenny may be loyal to Hosea, but he’s also loyal to you. If you tell him the reason for all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense, then he’ll keep your secret.”

“Again, I ain’t so sure. Lenny and I get along fine, sure, but loyal?” Arthur shakes his head, self-deprecating. “I’m not one to inspire loyalty.”

Mary-Beth rolls her eyes so hard that he thinks they might pop out of her head. She’s become far more comfortable with him over the course of their business relationship, and it manifests in fierce attitude sometimes. “Oh, Arthur,” she says, exasperated. “You have no idea the weight you pull around here, don’t you? Half the men in this camp think you’re some kind of demigod. Of course Lenny is loyal to you. Him, John, Charles, Sean—they’re here for you more than they’re here for Dutch. Honestly, even the Callander boys, mean as they were, worshipped the ground you walked on. God rest their souls,” she adds.

“If you say so,” Arthur deflects, and changes the subject to something less inconceivable: “So, alright, we bring in Lenny. Tell him that we’re keeping it a secret so no idiots can interfere and muck things up. We’re getting a lot of money together first, to prove to Dutch and Hosea that this is a real option for us. Prove that this art scam could make more money than robbin’, and we can lay low. _Really_ lay low,” he reviews, more for his own sake than hers.

“Exactly. There’s no reason he wouldn’t agree to it. Although it isn’t a scam,” she corrects earnestly. “This is as legitimate as any store in town.”

“Like I said, a scam.”

“Oh, stop,” Mary-Beth says, but she’s smiling. “I’ll go get Lenny. You wait here.”

“Not like I can do much else,” Arthur grumbles as she leaves his tent. These days, it offers a bit more privacy; Susan put up canvas sheets around the back and side when he was still sweating out the infection, leaving only the front open. No one’s taken it down yet, and Arthur isn’t complaining.

Mary-Beth returns with Lenny, who is visibly concerned. “Is everything alright with Arthur?” he’s saying as they enter the tent.

“I’m fine, kid,” Arthur interjects.

Lenny grins at him, relieved. “You look better than yesterday. Thought you were well on your way to an early grave. I should’ve known that nothing can keep Arthur fucking Morgan down.”

Standing behind Lenny, Mary-Beth gives Arthur a smirk like: _I told you so._

Arthur’s neck goes hot with embarrassment. He laughs and boasts to play it off. “Kid, ain’t nothin’ killin’ me yet, ‘specially not some O’Driscoll sons a’bitches. Now, listen, Mary-Beth and I have a job for you…”

.

Lenny is amenable to the plan and instantly understands the need for secrecy. “I can see why you wouldn’t want Micah or Bill to know about this,” he says, smirking. “Or Sean. Or John. Or, hell, Karen, Uncle…”

While Arthur recovers, Lenny and Mary-Beth get to work. They clean up in a city-slicking suit and dress and make like they’re doing some scam in town, just for the two of them and their innocent baby faces, and head to Saint Denis to meet with the gallery owner. Paul Laurent, they report back, is over the moon to be the first person to exhibit Thomas Floyd’s work, who may be an amateur artist but by all accounts is going to revolutionize the art world. 

“He said your painting style is ‘one of the first conceptions of realism’,” Mary-Beth quotes.

“What’s realism?” Arthur asks.

“I’m not sure. He talked a lot about French impressionism too, but we just nodded along,” Mary-Beth turns to Lenny, who shrugs in agreement, “and that seemed to work fine. Bottom-line: The show is on!”

The pair visit Saint Denis a few more times after the initial meeting to draw up a business contract with Laurent. Lenny negotiates him down from 60 percent commission from the sales (“And they call us criminals,” Lenny complains, hunched in Arthur’s tent, one hand holding a marked-up contract and the other one gripping one of Arthur’s fine ink pens) to 40 percent, which the three of them all agree is absolutely outrageous, but apparently that’s how the art world works.

Next comes deciding the pieces for exhibition. The plan is to display six paintings and a number of smaller, ink landscape drawings, to be framed. Arthur agrees to show the painting he made for _The American Magazine of Art_ ’s cover, as well as three other portraits. The last two pieces are Albert Mason's wolves and his painted recreation of ‘A Fool in the Snow’. Mary-Beth doesn’t even recognize it as John, referring to it only by the painting’s name, until Lenny asks Arthur, quiet and a bit stricken, if that’s the day they found John half-dead in the mountains. 

Lenny says, “I think you should show him that painting,” when Arthur confirms that it is indeed John.

“He doesn’t need to see it.” Arthur brushes him off.

“I think he does, Arthur. I can tell things have been better between you two latey, but,” Lenny exhales, unsure if he’s overstepping, “I think if he saw it, it would go a long way toward clearing the air entirely.”

“Just worry about the business,” Arthur says coolly. When Lenny flinches, Arthur adds, “I appreciate the concern, but we’re fine.”

And they are, mostly. John stops by Arthur’s tent almost daily to check in and chat, though his version of chatting is just complaining. “Abigail keeps bugging me to take Jack fishing. God I fuckin’ hate fishing”, John will groan, or “Hosea forced me to sit down and read a whole chapter of that detective bullshit just to prove I can still read—yes, Morgan, I can still read, fuck off”. There’s still an air of hesitation when he approaches Arthur, like he’s afraid Arthur is about to change his mind and start snapping at him, acerbic. That never happens, of course. Even though John _is_ annoying sometimes.

The other members of camp visit him, too. Susan and Swanson every morning to check his wounds. Pearson brings stew, saying Arthur’s earned some room service after all the game he’s brought in. Tilly sets up dominoes at his bedside table, and the other women cycle through with gossip and well-wishes—even Molly comes to vent about Dutch, finding a helpless listener in Arthur’s bedridden form. Charles is out hunting more now, but when possible, he instructs Arthur on crafting different types of arrows and medicinal poultices. Arthur notices that Javier plays his guitar by the poker table more often, closer to Arthur’s tent, rather than his usual place by the campfire; Sean, being Sean, challenges Arthur to increasingly absurd variations of five-finger fillet (“One round, Morgan, man with the most laps wins, but using only your _mouth_ ”), which Susan always puts a stop to before they can begin. Hosea has taken to quietly reading at his bedside in the afternoons. Dutch has taken to _loudly_ reading at his beside in the evenings. Altogether, it soothes Arthur’s worries that no one was planning on coming for him.

Micah, thankfully, keeps his distance, though he does delight in making jabs at Arthur’s infirmity whenever he passes by. 

The fact that Arthur was taken by the O’Driscolls means that the gang has cooled toward Kieran again. When Arthur sends for him, the kid is marched in by Bill, whose considerable forehead is wrinkled by a scowl. 

“You wanted to talk to this little snake?” Bill spits.

“Jeez, Williamson, let him go. He didn’t do nothin’,” Arthur says. “Come on. Leave off it.”

Bill reluctantly releases Kieran, who doesn’t even dare to step away. “You don’t know that. He’s a damn O’Driscoll. He’s probably the reason you got caught,” Bill says.

“You and I both know he isn’t, or he’d be dead already. Enough, Bill. He’s ain’t an O’Driscoll no more.” Arthur glares. It’s a testament to the gross ferocity of his character or his face that Bill backs down, even when Arthur is sitting there like an invalid.

“Fine, Morgan,” Bill says, never one for talking once he’s admitted defeat. Not like Micah’s endless barbs. Bill stalks off.

Kieran releases an audible sigh of relief. “Thank you, Arthur. I was afraid he was bringing me here to kill me.”

“And what was I doing in that scenario?” Arthur asks, bemused.

“...Also killing me.” 

Arthur barks out a laugh. “Ah, kid. You need to get over that.” He motions for Kieran to sit on the stool by his cot. 

“It ain’t that easy, and you know it,” Kieran protests, and obediently sits.

“I promise I mean no harm to you. Unless,” Arthur glowers fiercely at him, “you really did sell me out to Colm.”

“No, Arthur, I would _never._ I swear on my life. Even if they tortured me, I would never say a word about you,” Kieran says. He’s so earnest that it startles Arthur right out of his mock-anger.

“Well. Thanks, kid. You’re a good sort.” Arthur takes out two cigarettes, offering one to Kieran. “Now why don’t you tell me about what you’ve been up to? Haven’t seen hide nor hair of you in weeks. I could’ve died in this bed without a kind word from you.”

“Arthur, I’m so sorry, I was just—aw, you’re always having a laugh at me.”

“It’s just too easy, boy. Too easy.”

The time passes like that: too easy. Eventually, Arthur gets back on his feet. His shoulder is stiff, and he’s lost a bit of muscle mass, but he’s ready for action again. Dutch sends him with Bill, Micah, and Sean to Rhodes for a security job with the Grays. Should be easy. Clean.

Sean doesn’t come back.

.

_To Mr. Elliot Blake,_

_I would like to cordially invite you to Thomas Floyd’s exhibition next month, “America Redeemed”, at the Galerie Laurent in Saint Denis. Mr. Floyd himself will not be in attendance, but I would love to meet you._

_Yours,_

_Miss Mary Woodhouse_

.

_Mr. Paul Laurent,_

_I am writing to request another copy of the contract regarding my client Mr. Thomas Floyd’s upcoming exhibition. Mr. Floyd is interested in keeping one for his personal records._

_Furthermore, please address any correspondences for Miss Mary Woodhouse or me to the Saint Denis post office._

_Thank you for your attention._

_Respectfully,_

_Leonard Winters_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i envision Arthur’s portraits to be kind of in the style of Robert Henri. otherwise his paintings are a mix of the realist painters of that time: Henri, George Bellows, bit of Edward Hopper. but ofc you are free to imagine his style as you like!
> 
> -did i write that Billy Midnight scene solely to include an oblique reference to 'Rabbit, Run'? no, but BOY was it a happy accident.  
> -Arthur's horse Artemisia is named after Artemisia I of Caria, a warrior queen who fought for the Persians in 480BCE (because his old horse is named Boadicea?? huh??), and also kind of the plant  
> -the first painting arthur does is inspired by Victor Hugo's "The Hanged Man"  
> -"The American Magazine of Art" is based off the actual British "The Magazine of Art", a publication that ran from 1878-1904 and was apparently highly regarded and EXPENSIVE to print, thank u wikipedia  
> -Samuel Douglas is supposed to be Sarah Douglas, the current editor of ARTnews. but sexism :(  
> -oysters became affordable for people of all classes around the mid-1800s. the rockefeller oyster that arthur and john eat was actually invented in the year 1889 by the New Orleans restaurant Antoine's, which is still in business today!  
> -Jim the oyster owner is based off this reddit post: https://www.reddit.com/r/reddeadredemption/comments/9w49if/this_dude_is_a_legend/  
> -Hiram Rhodes Revels was seated as the first black member of the Senate and of Congress overall in 1870. therefore i assume and hope that there were black city councilmen by 1899, especially in a city based off New Orleans  
> -art galleries usually take 50% or less commission off sales of pieces in the gallery, according to the Internet  
> -some history of american art: https://www.nga.gov/features/slideshows/american-impressionists-of-the-late-1800s-and-early-1900s.html
> 
> RIP sean. i wanted to save him, i did, but it just didn't work out :(
> 
> also see what i mean by charles chatenay just taking over scenes? lol


	3. Saint Denis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***This chapter has minor spoilers for Chapter 4 of the game, through the mission "The Gilded Cage". After that, it diverges from canon***

They get Jack back from Angelo Bronte and settle down in Shady Belle. Dutch has some insane plan to ingratiate himself to the crime lord and possibly the mayor, too.

Arthur is rather sick of Dutch’s plans. He can only hope that his paintings sell during the exhibition and nets them a few thousand, enough to convince Dutch that they can keep their heads down while Arthur paints and makes money for tickets to Tahiti or seed capital or some plot of land out west — for whatever dream Dutch has decided to espouse.

Sharpshooting, cutthroat Lenny, young and ready to enact revenge on the world, who used to go out and scout homesteads mostly for fun, who didn’t quite believe in eventual dreams of simple ranch life so much as he believed in the here and now of robbing and feeling good, has cooled on the life of crime after Sean’s death. Instead, he seems very much in agreement with Arthur’s vision, dedicating himself to ensuring both the gallery opening and Arthur’s greater career as an artist goes smoothly. He accompanies Arthur to the city, a daily trip now that they’re so close, providing him a cover for his painting. “Casing the city together,” Lenny tells Hosea. “Hustling some tables,” Lenny lies to Dutch. “Climb down out of my ass and fuck off,” Lenny says to Micah, because Micah once called Lenny “nigger” and no one in camp has forgotten that. Lenny gets a free pass for hostility toward Micah.

Arthur nets $300 painting a portrait, enough money for he and Lenny to continue the jig for a good while. It’s a special discount order for Elliot Blake, who looks exactly like Arthur envisioned him: a strong American jaw, protruding nose, and greying hair pushed back to reveal a wispy widow’s peak.

Meanwhile, Lenny makes plans to negotiate an extra room in the exhibition. The more paintings, the more potential profit, he explains. It becomes clear that Lenny likes explaining things — likes talking, and not just in the way of young men who think they have important thoughts to share about the world. His locution is always careful and crisp, selling an idea before you realize you’re buying. He’s possibly more like Hosea than Arthur originally thought. 

Good news comes from the gallery. The exhibition, originally open to the public, has become so highly anticipated that Laurent has had to make it an exclusive, week-long event to accommodate all the guests. Businessmen, fellow artists, writers, and many high society types have RSVP’d from all over the country. New York, Boston, Chicago. Arthur can scarcely imagine it. 

In the end, Laurent comes to Lenny and Mary-Beth, sweating with excitement and nerves, half-pleading for more paintings. Lenny makes him bring the commission down to 35 percent and calls it a deal — then, he drags Arthur to the city even more insistently and hounds him to paint.

Of course, painting more is no issue for Arthur. To him, it is the freedom that Dutch has always waxed lyrical about. He can’t think of anything else that he quite enjoys doing as much. Maybe simpler things. Riding Artemisia, hooves pounding the dirt, wind nearly rustling his hat clean off his head; sitting around the campfire listening to Javier play, the voices of the gang cheery around him; kneeling down to scribble a flower in his journal. Arthur is keen on those moments of peace. 

Lenny becomes a regular presence, situated at the table having a smoke or taking notes on books from the library. He keeps quiet with his back to Arthur as Arthur paints, carefully undisruptive. Arthur can imagine the others in the studio, too. Shades of them flicker and smile at him, entreeting him to put them to paper. He paints Mary-Beth, filled with daydreams, humming by the windowsill with a violet tucked behind her ear. Hosea’s profile, a book cracked open in his lap, his hands brushed with wrinkles.

Arthur attempts to keep Châtenay away while Lenny is there, letting him know through letters that his studio is housing private guests, but it’s a lost cause. The man does not surrender, climbing in through the window after he scales a veranda with all the expertise of a man who sneaks out of married women’s bedrooms daily. When he breaks in, Lenny pins him down and puts a knife to his throat.

“Why, is this any way to greet an old friend?” Châtenay says, sounding more gleeful than afraid. The man does love his drama.

Arthur gestures dismissively; orange paint splatters against the wall. Another battlescar for the studio. “Let him go, Lenny, he ain’t no harm.”

Lenny obediently releases Châtenay, who recovers with a spring in his step and says, “This is not exactly the ‘private guest’ I was expecting.” Châtenay gives Lenny a thorough once-over and leans in close to his face. “No curves. Less brutish-looking than the rest of you, though.”

“Uh, Arthur, who the hell is this guy?” Lenny asks, bewildered.

“Lenny, this is Charles Châtenay, an artist. He taught me how to paint, more or less. Mr. Châtenay, this is my friend Lenny, who I’m certain you will tell no one about.”

“Pleasure to meet you, _monsieur_.”

Lenny tries to smile but mostly looks constipated. “You, too, I guess. How long have you known Arthur?”

“Ah, since the creation of the Universe,” Châtenay says at the same time Arthur says, “Four months, give or take.”

“Right, then,” Lenny says, and turns away. “I’m just going to go back to studying.” 

Châtenay pulls out a bottle of liquor that was tucked into his coat. “But then who will help us drink this cognac?”

“...I guess this next chapter isn’t going anywhere.” 

It is the birth of a terrible friendship. At odd hours, Châtenay wanders in and out of the studio, bringing with him drink and leaving in his wake chaos and inebriation. In contrast to the days of he and Arthur’s earlier partnership, Arthur doesn’t participate in their bouts of intoxication, finding that he paints better sober. Occasionally, Arthur has to bodily throw out Lenny and Châtenay for being too distracting. After that, only God knows what they get up to in the city, what with Lenny and Charles both having a keen appetite for women.

Arthur is glad to see Lenny being more of his usual, upbeat self, though. It figures that after losing his loony Irish best friend, he would find an even loonier Frenchman.

.

The rich fragrance of coffee wafts through the studio. Arthur exhales in satisfaction after a sip, tipping the chair back slightly. He glances over at Lenny, snoozing on the bedroll with his mouth hanging open, and notices movement on the balcony.

Arthur frowns and sets his coffee down. One hand on his pistol, he prowls over to check for intruders. A grunt, the sound of hasty shuffling. Yes, there’s definitely someone there. He flings open the balcony doors and aims his gun.

“Javier?” 

Javier has one leg swung over the railing, apparently mid-escape judging by the angle of his torso. 

“Hey Arthur,” Javier says.

There’s a loud thud and a muffled swear from the ground level. Arthur tucks his gun away and leans over the balcony to see John flat on his ass.

“You never did learn how to stick the landing,” Arthur comments.

John gives him the finger.

“Just get inside before you two fools wake up the whole city,” Arthur says.

When they shamble in, Arthur has already put on a fresh pot of coffee and woke up Lenny, who is too sleepy to affect surprise at the visitors.

“John, Javier,” Lenny greets with bleary nonchalance. He rises from the bedroll.

“Take a seat,” Arthur says, motioning to the kitchen table. There’s only three chairs, so Arthur crosses his arms and leans against the counter.

The men sit. Javier and John can’t stop turning their heads, absorbing the strange surroundings. Paint dusting the floors and walls, canvases leaned against the windows to dry. Two easels, one on each side of the room, facing the wall so that the work is obscured to everyone but the painter.

“What is this place?” John asks.

“An art studio, fool, what else,” says Lenny, smug.

John shoves his shoulder. “What are you _doing_ here?”

“What are you two doing here?” Arthur counters. “Skulkin’ around like a pair of burglars.”

“I followed Javier,” John says shamelessly.

“Hey, don’t put this on me. You wanted to come,” Javier protests, but he tries, unsuccessfully, to dodge Arthur’s eyes. Arthur stares him down. He caves, and says, “Micah asked me to follow you.”

Arthur clenches his jaw. “And since when do you take orders from Micah?”

“I don’t. Micah is a sorry sheep-fucker,” Javier says plainly. “But I’ve been curious what you and Lenny are up to anyway. Don’t take it too personally.”

Arthur turns to John, and whatever his expression is makes John flinch hard. “And you,” Arthur says, “Did you come to spy on me for Micah, too?”

“‘Course not. You know I don’t like him any more than you do. Always making eyes at Abigail.” John scowls. “I just saw Javier sneakin’ out of camp and asked to come with, see what you guys are up to.”

“Hustling poker tables,” Lenny says automatically.

“Right,” says Javier with a deliberate look at the ink pens strewn about the table.

John snorts. “Don’t think anyone believes y’all are actually playin’ poker. Except Bill, ‘cause he’s got the brains of a squirrel.”

“Like you got any more than him, Marston,” Lenny says. John shoves him again, this time forcefully enough that he nearly falls out of his seat. Lenny just snickers.

“So what is all this?” Javier asks. “You guys running some kind of art smuggling business?”

Arthur sighs and rubs his beard. “Not exactly.” He goes to the stove where the coffee’s come to boil, and pours out four cups. Upon further consideration, he adds a shot of bourbon to each. “Have a drink while l explain things.”

Javier and John accept the mugs and take synchronized swigs. Lenny cups his hands around the coffee and leans down, blowing at the steam.

“We’re doing an art scam, of sorts. I’m pretendin’ to be a famous painter and sellin’ paintings to rich folk. There’s a gallery exhibit coming up and everything. Hoping to make a decent bit of money there.” Arthur motions to Lenny. “Lenny and Mary-Beth have been doing the business stuff. Talkin’ to customers and whatnot. I just paint.”

“Huh. What artist are you pretending to be?” John asks. “DaVinci or something? Can you even paint that well?”

“How can he pretend to be DaVinci? That guy’s dead,” Javier points out.

“Well obviously they’re just pretending the _paintings_ are from him. Long-last treasures or something,” John snaps back. “No one would see Arthur in-person and believe he’s some fancy artist.”

“The painter’s name is Thomas Floyd,” Arthur interrupts before they can start arguing. “He’s not that famous yet. I got to paintin’ as him a few months ago, but things are goin’ pretty well now.”

John’s mouth twists in confusion. “Wait, he’s not even famous? Why’d you pick him then?”

“You dumb bastards. Arthur _is_ Thomas Floyd. It’s just an alter-ego,” Lenny says. Arthur shoots him a displeased look. “Sorry, Arthur, but there’s no getting around the truth now that they’re here.”

John’s face twists up even more and his eyes go squinty with bafflement. “So you’re actually just a painter? You and Lenny and Mary-Beth are just selling … your own paintings?”

Arthur scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah. It’s. A legitimate business venture, I guess.”

“I don’t know if I’d call it ‘legitimate’ — snooty rich fellas buyin’ paintings from an outlaw. That’s half a scam right there,” John says with a grin. 

“How much are you making from it?” asks Javier, businesslike.

Lenny answers, equally so, “People have offered to pay around $500 to $600 for a portrait, but we’re hoping for a much larger amount with people offering on paintings at the exhibit. A couple thousand total, at least.”

John’s mouth falls open. Javier whistles and says, “Wow. That’s no joke.”

“Yes. If all goes well, this whole thing has the potential to be really profitable. We were trying to keep things secret until after the exhibit and we got out with a good chunk of cash,” Lenny says.

“There’s certain people around camp who I don’t want interfering and messin’ things up,” Arthur clarifies. He directs a stern glare at Javier and John.

Javier shrugs, half a surrender. “What about Dutch? Does he know?”

“Naw. Just Lenny and Mary-Beth. Kieran knows a bit. And you two, now,” Arthur says. “I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

“I don’t like that, Arthur.” Javier frowns. “I sort of understand the need for secrecy, but it doesn’t sit right with me.”

“I gotta agree. If Dutch finds out you’ve been going his back, for whatever reason…” John trails off. “Well, he won’t be happy.”

“I know, I know. I just don’t think he’ll react well,” Arthur says moodily.

“Why not? This could make a ton of money. Isn’t that what he wants?” John says.

The thing is: Arthur isn’t sure that’s what Dutch wants. Seems like he’s been talking about “one last score” for months now, but every job they do is never enough. Seems Dutch just wants chaos and revenge on whoever slighted them last, whether that be Cornwall or the Pinkertons or Bronte, even though they slighted most of them first. Arthur knows better than to say all that, though, so he just shrugs and says: “I s’pose since the exhibit is already planned, I could maybe tell him and Hosea.”

“I think that’s the right call,” John says. 

“We can all talk to them at camp together, back you up,” Javier offers. “Just the two of them. No need to bring in the people you’re worried about.”

“Dutch will probably just tell the others anyway,” Arthur says. “Hell, with this amount of money on the line, he might even give a speech to the whole camp, which is exactly what I’m tryin’ to avoid. If Bill or Micah or even Uncle gets some smart idea about going to the exhibit themselves, it’ll be a shitshow.”

“Dutch isn’t unreasonable, Arthur. If you ask him to keep the job low-profile, then he will,” Javier says. “Where is all this doubt coming from lately, anyway? It’s like you don’t even trust him anymore.”

“Watch your mouth,” Arthur growls. “Dutch is like my father. Don’t you go diggin’ your nose into our relationship.”

Javier puts his hands up. “Alright, man. I just mean you’ve been questioning him a lot lately. Everyone has heard it.”

The room goes still, quiet. Arthur can see the anxiety knotting in the other men’s shoulders, perhaps preparing for his infamous temper to show itself. But Arthur isn’t angry — he’s just tired.

“I love Dutch. I love everyone in the gang like family, and lately, I’ve watched too much of my family die,” he says, grim. “We need to get out of this life before anyone else does. If this art business can help us do that, clean, with no lives at stake, then I don’t want to take any risks. Even if it means hidin’ things from Dutch.” 

Javier nods slowly, appeasingly. “I understand that, Arthur. But keeping secrets is just going to create rifts. You have to trust Dutch. He’ll help you like he’s helped you for the past twenty years.”

“...Alright,” Arthur relents. Dutch is his father. He can put his trust in him one more time, and pray that nothing goes wrong. “I’ll talk to him and Hosea tomorrow.”

“I think they’ll both be overjoyed,” John says. “A couple thousand dollars will put us a lot closer to Tahiti, or a ranch, or something.”

“Yeah. Tahiti,” Arthur mutters. 

Javier downs the rest of his coffee and stands up, drawing their eyes to him. “So can we see these paintings of yours?” 

“Most of them are already at the gallery for safekeeping,” Arthur deflects.

Lenny points to the large canvas on the west end of the room. “What about the one you’ve been working on? I haven’t even seen that.”

Arthur hesitates. “I suppose. But it… it ain’t a pleasant sight.”

John is already halfway across the room; Javier and Lenny quickly follow. “Ain’t nothin’ pleasant comin’ from you,” John says, smirking.

But when he reaches the painting, his smirk dies. The three stand, eyes dark and solemn as they take in the scene of Sean’s death, in all its horrible, enchanting morbidity. None of them were there to witness it. The spill of his fiery hair tangled with the gory bits of his skull, his brains, smeared against the dirt. His body crumpled, legs bent oddly to the side, after he fell like a puppet with his strings cut. His hat resting off to the side, waiting to be picked up. Somehow, the hat had been the hardest for Arthur to paint.

“God rest his soul,” John says, breaking a long silence. Javier still has his head bowed in prayer, but his gaze is fixed on the painting.

Lenny brings a hand up as if to touch it, touch Sean, then drops it. “You aren’t selling this,” he says quietly.

Arthur shutters his eyes down to the floor, where spots of red paint have dripped and dried. “No,” he agrees. “This one’s private.”

.

Back at Shady Belle, Dutch takes the news about as well as Arthur expected, which is to say not very well at all.

“Arthur, you’ve been doing this for how long? Behind our _backs_?” he questions. He has that look about him again, his cheeks sucked in and his chin jutting out, that makes him look half-wild. 

“Now, now, Dutch,” Hosea cuts in. “Let’s not get too mad at Arthur. This is an incredible opportunity. We can excuse the boy his secrets.”

Hosea has a look about him, too, but it isn’t one that Arthur’s afraid of. Hosea seems proud. Happy. There’s a hopeful spark in his eye that Arthur hasn’t seen since Blackwater.

“Thousands of dollars, Dutch,” Hosea continues. “And all while laying low. This is just what we wanted. Besides, Arthur has already done all the heavy lifting. We just have to wait for him to fork over the cash to us old folks,” he says with a hearty laugh.

“Right. Yes,” Dutch says, no longer snarling. He fixes the angle of his hat. “No, you’re right, Hosea. This is good work. Who would’ve thought your silly little scribbles would be worth so much, eh, son?” He claps Arthur on the back. “You, Lenny, and Mary-Beth finish up this art business, and we’ll keep pursuing the leads from Bronte. Combined, we should have more than enough to get us all first-class tickets to tropical paradise.”

“Actually, Dutch, I was thinking that y’all don’t even need to work with Bronte,” Arthur says before Dutch can stalk off. “I can sell paintings for hundreds of dollars. If I do that for two, maybe three months, while everyone lays low, we’ll be set.”

“Son, we don’t have that sort of time.” Dutch grimaces. “I know you mean well, but leave the thinking to me, alright? You just keep… _painting_.”

He leaves the balcony with clipped steps. Hosea and Arthur stand in the cool wake of his departure for a minute. The camp beneath them is calm, the early morning mist still clouding the air.

“That might’ve gone better,” Arthur says wryly.

“It might have gone worse,” says Hosea, zen. “You should have brought this to us earlier.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Wasn’t sure it was worth mentionin’ until now. Besides, I don’t think I would’ve got this far if I did.”

“Hm. No, maybe not.” Hosea smiles and puts his hand over Arthur’s. His fingers are cold, but it makes Arthur feel warm. “I’m proud of you, son. I used to worry that you would never grow out of this big, mean body God cursed you with. That you wouldn’t find anything more for yourself than being good with a gun.” He squeezes Arthur’s hand gently. “But you proved me wrong. I’m very glad for it.”

“Got you to thank. It’s all ‘cause of that journal you gave me when I was a kid,” Arthur says.

“No, Arthur, I’m sorry to say I played very little part in this. It was all you.” Hosea releases his hand and fishes out a cigarette from his pocket. “Now go get cleaned up. Dutch will still want to take you to the mayor’s party tonight. Maybe even more so, now that you’re a high society artist,” he teases.

Arthur plucks the cigarette from Hosea’s mouth in retaliation, then goes to get changed.

.

Arthur doesn’t think he’ll ever fit in with these people, nor does he want to. The extravagance of their clothes, the price like armor, their sophisticated speech and subtle barbs — it makes his head spin. Like Mason says, Saint Denis has plenty of predators.

Arthur tries to keep his head down at the party and passively eavesdrop. He wanders around with a glass of champagne in hand, trying to look like he has a destination so that no one will stop him. Aside from saving a man from choking to death on an almond, the evening has thus far proven uneventful and uninformative, though he does overhear an embarrassing amount of excited chatter about Thomas Floyd’s exhibit in three days. Claustrophobic, Arthur flees to the gazebo to sit for a bit and smoke a cigar. Five minutes, he tells himself, then he’ll go back and find the mayor.

“Enjoying the party?”

A man sits beside him, also puffing on a cigar. His voice is lustrous and deep, but unfamiliar. His face, however…

“Elliot Blake,” Arthur says, startled, nearly dropping his smoke. He painted that face: the intelligent eyes, the downturned mouth. Mary-Beth shipped the portrait to New York City not a month prior.

Blake quirks a well-groomed brow. “Have we met?”

“No, Mr. Blake. I’m just a fan of your work,” Arthur says. He extends his hand, and Blake shakes it firmly. “Tacitus Kilgore. Pleased to meet you.”

“Good to meet you as well. What an impressive name you have. Did you follow in his footsteps?”

“Uh, how do you mean?”

“By way of occupation. Are you a historian or politician?”

“Oh, no. No. I’m just an,” Arthur falters and says, before he can think of anything else, “artist.”

Blake nods, apparently accepting this even though Arthur, broad-shouldered and sun-pocked and scarred in the hands and face, probably looks nothing of the sort. “Are you here for Thomas Floyd’s exhibit as well?”

“No. I’m not really familiar with his work.”

“Ah, that’s a surprise, given you claim to be a fan of mine.”

“Oh, well. I did see his pictures in your poetry collection,” Arthur backtracks. For authenticity, he adds, “The one of the old church was nice.”

“Hm,” Blake says, and falls silent, smoking. The orange ring of his cigar burns bright.

Arthur clears his throat. “I’d better get back to the party. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Blake.”

Blake waves politely to excuse him. “Be careful amongst those sharks, Mr. Kilgore. If they smell blood, they’ll bite.”

Arthur stands and gives a half-bow, awkward. “I will.” 

“And by the way,” Blake says, when Arthur is already two steps away, “I didn’t include your church drawing in my book. I kept it for my personal collection.”

Arthur turns back to face him. “I’m not too sure what you’re talking about, Mr. Blake,” he says slowly. 

Blake taps out the ashes of his cigar. “It’s just the ramblings of an old poet. Goodnight, Mr. Kilgore.”

“Goodnight.” Arthur inclines his head respectfully and retreats to the party. 

Stealing documents from the mayor’s mansion is child’s play after _that_.

.

The gallery opening ticks closer, and Arthur gets antsy— too antsy to paint, so he hangs around camp in a churlish mood. He snaps and glowers at anyone in his way; people begin to avoid him as much as they avoid Micah. Arthur swings the axe so hard when chopping wood that the stump splinters. And, normally a graceful loser, he upends the poker table after a particularly bad hand, sending chips and cards flying.

“Out, out,” Susan shouts after that, ushering him toward a saddled-and-ready Artemisia. “Go and run with the hogs and get over whatever nonsense is bothering you! I’ll have no animals in my camp.”

Arthur grumbles but obeys, riding out. Recalling Levin’s letter, he goes to the Saint Denis docks in search of the riverboat. Jim “Boy” Calloway is easy to locate, and Levin is faithfully glued to his side, looking not an ounce changed from when Arthur last saw him.

“Thank goodness you came,” Levin says, exhausted and exasperated all at once. “Mr. Calloway refuses to listen to me.”

“Why the hell would I listen to ya, ya smarmy prick,” Calloway says. He’s sliding off the barstool, his top hat wobbling precariously.

Levin jabs an accusatory finger at him: _you see what I have to deal with?_

Arthur snorts, amused despite himself. He could use a break from his worries. Deal with the ridiculous antics of the world again. “Alright,” he says. “What can I do for you?”

That line of questioning leads him to the northern forests of Roanoke Ridge, two days later, with a dead state marshall and a _very_ dead Jim “Boy” Calloway, as Arthur shot him twice in the chest and once in the head. Just because he was goddamned annoyed about the situation. He’d had to kill an entire camp of bounty hunters to kidnap the state marshall to duel Calloway, only for Calloway to shoot him in the back and then draw his gun on _Arthur_. None of these gunslingers were right in the damn head.

“Well. That’s one way to help write an ending,” Levin says, surprisingly blasé.

“Don’t put me in your book,” Arthur warns.

“Oh, surely not. There’s no need to mention you at all, because Mr. Calloway won an epic duel with his old nemesis, Slim Grant. However, the cowardly Grant pretended to be dead and when Calloway dropped his guard, shot him in the back!”

“Sounds well in character to me. Calloway did kill the rest of those gunslingers, after all.” Arthur pauses, recalling something strange, and asks, “Say, how is it that Calloway was hanging ‘round the city without runnin’ into trouble with the law? Or Midnight, ridin’ those trains?”

Levin doesn’t stop scribbling in his notebook as he says, “Simply because they weren’t in trouble with the law at all.”

“Weren’t they notorious killers?” 

“Sure, sure. Killed lots of people. If you didn’t have a bounty on your head, you weren’t worth mentioning as a gunslinger. But they got famous or rich enough that they could get lawyers and get pardoned by the government.” Levin smiles thinly. “These days, you can always cut a deal.”

“Snitchin’, you mean,” Arthur says, remembering Agent Milton’s slimy offer months back.

“Not necessarily. A lot of them just made the right friends or paid off the right people. For instance, I know that Midnight was close friends with a few congressmen. Violence sells! Everyone loves the old West. These senators and lawmakers grew up on tales of gunslingers. Of course they’d be fans of Billy Midnight.”

“Is that so,” says Arthur. “You think there’d be any senators looking to make friends with outlaws?”

Levin’s gaze slides over. “Quite possibly,” he says. “I know a good lawyer, at least, who would be willing to look into it for the right price. He represented Mr. Calloway.”

“I think a friend of mine would be very interested in the name of that lawyer.”

“You have many intriguing _friends_ , Mr. Callahan,” Levin says deliberately. The man is far craftier than Arthur originally gave him credit for. 

“You as well,” Arthur deflects, nodding at Calloway’s corpse.

“Hah. He was definitely the singular most interesting friend I’ve had,” Levin laughs, “Thankfully, I’m going back to Baltimore soon. Rub shoulders with fellow writers and dreamers again.”

“Hm. You know, I actually met that writer friend of yours. Elliot Blake.”

Levin blinks, as though the very notion is impossible. “Sorry? You met him?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, and doesn’t elaborate.

“Oh. He’s a very private fellow. I haven’t even met him in person before.” Levin squints in clear disbelief. “Where exactly did you meet him?”

Arthur grunts, somewhat offended and rather regretting opening this line of conversation. “Nevermind, it ain’t important. Just gimme the name of the lawyer, will ya? I got places to be.” 

“Alright, here, let me write it down…”

.

_Mr. Louis Whitfield,_

_I’ve heard that you represent individuals who are not on good terms with the government. I have a friend who is unpopular in the parts around Blackwater. In your professional opinion, is it possible to negotiate and clear his name?_

_Tacitus Kilgore_

.

Feeling paranoid, feeling hopeful, Arthur posts the letter from the Van Horn Trading Post on his way back south. He takes his time riding. 

It’s the second day of the exhibit when he reaches Shady Belle. Arthur isn’t ready to hear the news, good or bad, but he’s never run away from anything in his life. He presses Artemisia onward into camp.

Mary-Beth’s bright, teary smile is the first sight that greets him. “Arthur,” she says, her voice breaking a bit. “You won’t believe this.”

She tugs him toward his tent and her lips form the shape of numbers, outrageous numbers. A Massachusetts state senator offered fifteen-hundred dollars for Albert Mason’s snarling wolves. A woman from New York, her husband’s cheque book in hand, old money, wants to pay two-thousand for the portrait of a Chinese girl — almond-eyed and pale with pink cheeks and pinker lips, turning her head just slightly over her shoulder, bright against the charcoal wood of the gun shop — and another two-thousand for the one of Mary-Beth. The prices get more and more absurd: three-thousand for a scene of dockworkers in the early morning, cigarette smoke rising from their mouths, a stack of crates half-unloaded to the side; thirty-five-hundred for a factory rising over the swamps, ugly grey and green and billowing. It’s incomprehensible. Mary-Beth talks and talks like she’s possessed, not pausing for an instant between the numbers. Two-thousand, seven-hundred. Five-thousand, two-hundred and fifty. Forty-four hundred. Finally, she finishes: some steel magnate by the name of George Lauder wants to buy “A Fool in the Snow” for ten-thousand dollars.

“Have you told Dutch and Hosea?” is all Arthur can think to say. Is all he’s capable of saying.

“Not yet. Only Lenny and I know.” She dabs at a tear, still smiling. “We wanted you to share the good news.”

“Arthur!” Lenny comes bursting into the tent, as if summoned. “Arthur, it’s amazing, it’s…” he sees the look on Arthur’s face. “Damn it, Mary-Beth, you told him without me?”

“I’m sorry, Lenny, I couldn’t help it,” she says. “He looked so nervous riding in.”

“Well, I guess I still get to see how a speechless Arthur Morgan looks. Close your mouth, man, you’re catching flies,” Lenny says, and laughs, carefree. 

It’s a wonderful sound, Arthur thinks, and the joy contained in it snaps him out of his shock. He clears his throat to find his voice. “Let’s go find Dutch and Hosea. We’ll tell ‘em together.”

“Hell yeah,” Lenny hoots. “Get Kieran, too, he deserves some credit for lugging all those paintings around with me.”

“I’ll get him,” Mary-Beth volunteers.

“I bet,” Lenny says. Mary-Beth giggles and sashays out, shameless.

Arthur collects Hosea from the veranda, and they all march upstairs to find Dutch in his room, ostensibly reading leisurely at the table. The tight grip of his fingers on the book’s spine, splitting it open, is revealing.

“Arthur has some good news for us about the art venture,” Hosea says, settling into the seat across from him.

“Does he?” Dutch doesn’t close the book, but he looks up, his eyes flashing over Kieran, Lenny, and Mary-Beth. “Is the audience necessary?”

“Just wanted to give credit where credit is due. All these folks made it possible,” Arthur says. “Lenny, you tell ‘em. Go on.”

Lenny, practically vibrating with excitement, starts talking midway through Arthur’s sentence: “After paying the gallery its take, we stand to net around $26,000.”

Dutch snaps the book shut. “Come again, son?”

“I apologize, did I hear you correctly?” Hosea says.

“Twenty-six thousand, sirs,” Lenny says, grinning so wide it reaches both ears. 

For the first time in Arthur’s life, he sees Dutch at a loss for words.

“Well,” exhales Hosea after a long, stunned silence, “I suppose we’re headed to Tahiti, after all.”

Dutch says, “No.”

“No?” Hosea repeats.

“No.” Dutch rises, and his words gain surety with the movement. “Not yet. We have the money now, no doubt, but we still have unfinished business here.”

“What unfinished business?” Arthur asks, dumbfounded. 

He can sense the others shrinking behind his back as Dutch reels on him, hissing: “Bronte, for his arrogance, for Jack. Colm. I still haven’t forgotten what he did to you, son. _Cornwall_.”

“None of that is business, Dutch, that’s revenge,” the anger swells and, for once, sharpens his tongue, turns his words scathing instead of stupid, “and we aren’t stupid enough to take it. We can use this money and get out of here. Tahiti, California, Australia — we can go _anywhere_. Live the dream you’re always preachin’ to us. Or was that all a lie?”

Dutch flinches back as if struck. Then, he sighs deeply, resigned. “Arthur. My boy. Of course not. It hurts that you would say such a thing. Son, I want for all of us to escape together, but do you really believe Cornwall or the Pinkertons are just going to let us go so easily? They’ve hunted us across three states. They’re watching the ports, the borders.”

“When the O’Driscoll’s needed to move, they’d split into smaller groups,” Kieran chimes in, deciding to be stupidly brave _now_ , of all times.

Dutch turns his gaze on him, predatory. “Are we the O’Driscolls, boy?” he asks, then presses on without waiting for a response, “Are we a gang of filthy killers and rapists? Do we live like them? Do we split up and leave _family_ behind, like them?”

“N-no, sir,” Kieran says, leaning into Arthur slightly.

Dutch smiles. “No. I reckon not.” He saunters back to the table and sits with Hosea once more. “My oldest friend, what do you think?”

Hosea purses his lips. “Honestly, Dutch, I think this is possibly the only good opportunity we have to get out, before things really go south. Like you said, the Pinkertons are on our tail.”

“They are,” Dutch agrees, “and I have a plan for that. Have _faith_. I’m negotiating with Mr. Bronte, who may be able to broker for peace between us and Cornwall. He’s the man funding the Pinkertons now, anyway, or those lazy government pigs would have long left us alone.”

“If Mr. Bronte is capable of it, I suppose it might be wise to wait for that to unfold,” Hosea acknowledges. “Arthur? Do you agree?”

Dutch watches him, expressionless. Shades of the man he calls his father, and shades of a terrifying stranger. Arthur wonders, for the first time, if he won’t be able to save him. But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

“I think that’d be best,” Arthur says, a flawless lie.

.

_Miss Joanna Southwood, Esq._

_I am interested in hiring your legal services. Would you be able to negotiate with the government on behalf of a client who, hypothetically speaking, has a several thousand dollar bounty on their head and is wanted for grand larceny, murder, and other crimes in several states? If said client had, hypothetically, plenty of money to pay for your time?_

_Please write back to Emerald Station._

_Cornelius Trout_

_._

_Mr. Russell Moreland, Esq._

_I am interested in hiring your legal services. Would you be able to negotiate with the government on behalf of a client who, hypothetically speaking, has a several thousand dollar bounty on their head and is wanted for grand larceny, murder, and other crimes in several states? If said client had, hypothetically, plenty of money to pay for your time?_

_Please write back to Wallace Station._

_Lucius Sturgeon_

.

Over the next several days, Arthur rides up and down the countryside mailing letters from train stations to various lawyers that Lenny found in the papers. It’s not the smartest or the most efficient thing he’s ever done, but he’s desperate. He’s willing to do anything short of suicidally walking into a law office and asking for help directly. 

Without consciously planning it, he makes it back to Saint Denis in time for the last day of the exhibit. He has an invitation in his pocket addressed to Arthur Callahan (because he’s learned his lesson about using fancy Roman names in person), and he throws on the dress clothes Mary-Beth bought for him a while ago, stashing it in a box under the sink. He shaves, thinks about cutting his hair, then scowls at himself for being so vain and regrets shaving at all. 

He walks, alone, to the Galerie Laurent, as the satin cloak of dusk descends over the city. As usual, it is unrepentantly hot, and Arthur sweats through the back of his dress shirt and part way through the vest, too. 

“You’re a bit late, Mr. Callahan,” the usher says at the door. “The gallery is closing in half an hour.”

Arthur grunts and goes upstairs. There aren’t many people, thankfully. A young couple cooing over his rendition of Hosea. A balding man with his back turned. Two hulking fellows dressed in immaculate suits. Lenny and Mary-Beth are nowhere to be found — finalizing sales with Mr. Laurent, maybe.

Arthur paces around the room. Numbers come to mind, unbidden. Five thousand for the painting he did for the magazine cover. He stops in front of it. It’s a man in a bowler hat with the brim pulled down low; only his smiling, mustached mouth is visible. He has his hand raised, like he might be about to extend it to you, or to perform some elaborate gesture. Five thousand dollars for art of Dutch van der Linde. It’s almost half his bounty. Arthur laughs, the sound raspy and somewhat delirious.

“Mr. Kilgore, what a pleasant surprise.”

The balding man from earlier approaches, sedately ambling over. Elliot Blake, again.

“Mr. Blake,” Arthur says wearily. 

Blake does not seem to notice his tone, or perhaps just does not care. He comes to stand at Arthur’s side, facing the painting of Dutch. “There’s something enchanting about him. It makes one wonder who the man really is,” Blake remarks. 

Arthur doesn’t reply. Suddenly, he is hyper-aware of the two large men in the room, who upon further reflection are observing paintings positioned at exit points. The young couple has vanished.

Blake continues sedately, “Then again, there are a lot of men like him in this world. But there are not many genius artists like Mr. Floyd, are there?

“I don’t know about genius,” Arthur says. His eyes flicker to the open window. He could jump from the second-story, no issue, if he falls the right way. 

“Jealousy does not become you. I believe that one day, you, too, could be Mr. Floyd. A gallery opening of your own. An opportunity to create lasting cultural impact. Wealth and fame.” Blake turns to him with a shrewd smile. “Who knows? That day might even be today.”

Arthur grits his teeth. His head aches. He hasn’t slept in two days. Frankly, he is not smart or patient or _awake_ enough for this song and dance. “Let’s stop the games. What do you want with me? Are you and your men here to turn me in? Because I can promise you: The money is not worth your lives,” he says coldly.

Blake actually chuckles. “Oh, it certainly isn’t. Even the highest bounty is but a pittance. Now relax, Mr. Morgan. I will speak to you without pretense.” He strolls over to the velvet-cushioned bench in the middle of the room and sits, leisurely lighting a cigar. Behind him: the painting of John, a vicious backdrop. “My real name is George Lauder, of the Lauder Steel Company. Much like Thomas Floyd is for you, Elliot Blake is merely a pseudonym that I use to produce art. A hobby, if you will. There are not many who know me by that name.”

“You’re the man who’s payin’ ten grand for that fool painting,” Arthur recognizes.

“Indeed. I am a rather devout fan of your work, and I should like to see that you continue making it. I understand that you have been seeking legal counsel for your troubles? Puzzled? You shouldn’t be. Your aliases have not proven difficult to track.”

Arthur frowns. “Seems plenty difficult for the Pinkertons.”

George Lauder rumbles with amusement. “The Pinkerton are incompetent, bumbling lapdogs. They are more suited to rolling over for treats than actual detective work. And now, their master is an equally incompetent degenerate with no idea how to properly train a hound.”

“Not like you, Mr. Lauder? You know how to train dogs.”

“You misunderstand me. I am not interested in you, Mr. Morgan, nor am I interested in your gang of miscreants. Cops and robbers is a child’s game, and I am an old man,” Lauder says with a wry smile. “An old man with a lot of money who wants to shape the twentieth century for the better. I want universities in my name; I want research to solve world hunger. I want concert halls, museums to uplift society and culture. I want Mr. Thomas Floyd’s art. So allow me to offer my assistance in removing you and your associates from an unfortunate situation.”

Arthur crinkles his brow. “Is my art really that important?” 

“Perhaps, perhaps not. It doesn’t matter. I want it,” Lauder says, as though it is that simple. “Now, will you meet with my lawyer and sort out your business, or will you not?”

Arthur hesitates, like he might be considering it. But he’s long made his decision when it comes to grasping at foolish chances, at hope. He gives his answer.

Lauder smiles, entirely unsurprised, and tells him the address.

.

On a hot, smothering morning in Saint Denis, Arthur Morgan becomes a free man. Or rather, Thomas Floyd, his new identity, does. Arthur’s bounty is too high to clear his real name.

But John Marston and Hosea Matthews, and anyone else in the Van der Linde gang with a warrant for their arrest, and lower price on their head — Leonard Summers, Javier Escuella, Bill Williamson, Josiah Trelawney — get legitimate papers showing their new citizen status. Same names, same faces, but new, clean records. Even Micah fucking Bell has been given a free pass.

“Provided everyone discards old habits and becomes law-abiding citizens, you all should have no problem,” says Lauder’s lawyer, a slim black man by the name of Maurice Pearlman, who speaks without any inflection. “The Pinkertons and Cornwall will be instructed to leave you alone.”

The ease with which he says that makes Arthur startle. Like the Pinkertons who have hounded them for nearly a year are some half-cocked enforcers, called to heel with ease. Like Leviticus Cornwall, who Arthur thought to be a man of lofty, unambiguous power, is just a trifle.

The only catch is Dutch. The federal government needs to hold somebody responsible, Pearlman explains, and they can’t completely pardon him. However, if Dutch is willing to plead guilty, Pearlman can negotiate the sentence down to 20 years without parole. 

“Normally, with his rap sheet, that would be unheard of, but Mr. Lauder knows the right wheels to grease,” says Pearlman. “This is the best deal he’s going to get. You should advise him to take it.”

He prepares a briefcase filled with the gang’s identity papers and a legal agreement for Dutch, as well as the banking information for Thomas Floyd. Arthur reaches for the handle, but Pearlman does not yet let go. 

Pearlman says, in the same bland tone, “Of course, if Mr. Van der Linde were to simply become impossible to find, perhaps escaping to the west and living peacefully off some exorbitant amount of wealth, the United States government may lose interest in him in a few years. There is a rather more important, troublesome situation brewing across the border to deal with.”

Pearlman hands him the briefcase and goes back to his work without a second glance.

Arthur goes. He holds onto the briefcase the entire ride back to Shady Belle, steering Artemisia with just one arm. If he lets it out of his sight, it’s liable to vanish like smoke. The whole encounter will have been but a cruel dream.

He hitches his horse and heads straight for the manor house, nodding his head at the greetings sent his way. Anticipation and relief roil in his stomach, warring.

Dutch is stepping out the front door when Arthur approaches; they almost knock into each other. “Arthur, finally,” Dutch says, patting him on the shoulder. “I was about to send someone out looking for you.”

His concern makes the relief win, and Arthur exhales with it. “Dutch, remember our talk last week? About the art money and the Pinkertons?”

“Of course. Son, if you’re worried, don’t be. I’ve been talking to Bronte, and we have some leads from the party…”

“I’m not worried,” Arthur interrupts. “I fixed it. The Pinkertons and Cornwall won’t bother us no more.”

“You fixed it,” Dutch says, uncomprehending.

“A man, George Lauder, helped. He’s some steel tycoon, owns half of America or somethin’, makes Cornwall look like a damn minnow. He got his lawyer to negotiate with the government and get us all clean records, ‘cept yourself, but he implied that you were free to lay low and live your life, don’t have to turn yourself in or nothing.” The words pour out quickly before Dutch has the chance to refute or question them, and Arthur sets down the briefcase, pulling out a sheet of papers — Javier’s — as proof. “Look, it’s all right here.”

Dutch takes the papers and inspects them. “George Lauder. I’ve heard of him. And he helped us, why?”

“He wants Thomas Floyd to keep on painting. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but why go through all this trouble if he’s lyin’? He’s had a ton of chances to capture me or you. Hell, he was at the mayor’s party, and I’ll bet my life that he knew exactly who all of us were.”

“Arthur, you are far too trusting. I can think of a number of reasons why some business magnate would concoct such a scheme,” Dutch says. He shakes his head, pitying. “To deliver us to his business partner, Leviticus Cornwall. To return some favor to the U.S. government. It’s an obvious trap.”

“No it ain’t, Dutch,” Arthur snaps, growing frustrated. “If this man wanted to, if he cared that much, he’d already have his men marchin’ us out of this place in cuffs. Besides, he ain’t asked us to go anywhere or anythin’. We have all our papers and freedom. Let’s just leave. Head west, start a new life.”

“We have unfinished business here, son. Bronte. The O’Driscolls.”

“Damn the O’Driscolls! Damn it all!” Arthur shouts. He can hear noises of surprise as his voice startles people awake. “I have brought everything you asked for, everything that we all dreamed of, and you’re going on about some decade-old feud? We could move out west and have a ranch, a farm. Hell, we could even just have a plot of land to do nothing but drink and play poker all day, if we wanted. We could move to China, god damn it. We’re _free_ , Dutch. We’ve won.”

“Living at the beck-and-call of some steel tycoon is not freedom, Arthur. Living under the thumb of this _twisted_ society. That is not freedom. That is not _us_ ,” Dutch snarls.

“Freedom?” Arthur snatches the rest of the papers from the briefcase and marches away, toward where the other members of the gang have risen, cautiously listening. “Let’s let everyone decide for themselves what freedom is. Here, Marston. This is yours. Be free, have a good life with your boy.” He shoves the papers into John’s chest. John staggers back, bleary-eyed and bewildered. “Bill, Charles, Hosea. Lenny. Javier, Dutch has yours. Trelawney. And you, too, Micah.” He throws the papers at Micah’s feet, then declares, to Dutch, to himself, to everyone: “We’re all goddamned free. Clean names. Clean records. We can finally stop runnin’.”

“You sound like a madman, Arthur,” Dutch cautions.

Arthur grinds his teeth and holds back his first retort. Instead, he says, “Is it madness to want a chance at living?”

“Is this real, Arthur?” Hosea interjects shakily, rising with the papers in hand. “We’re free men?”

“It’s real,” Arthur says. “It’s real, Hosea. We got a chance at peace here.”

“What do you mean by all this commotion, Mr. Morgan? Explain for the rest of us folk,” Susan demands.

Arthur softens his tone. “Miss Grimshaw, everyone, I’m mighty sorry for wakin’ everyone so early and for keeping secrets from most of y’all. I’ve been doing a legitimate side business for a while now that’s made a whole heap of money, and could make more. My business put me in the path of a powerful fella who’s helped clear out names with the government. No strings attached, provided I keep up my business.”

“And what _business_ is this, Morgan? For god’s sake, it sounds like you’re whorin’ yourself out,” Micah sneers.

“It’s art, dipshit. Arthur has some culture, unlike your hillbilly ass,” Lenny snarks before Arthur can.

“Art? What does Morgan know about art?” Bill says incredulously. “What—is he selling those stupid scribbles from his journal?”

Javier comes to his defense. “He’s selling paintings, and they’re gorgeous. I don’t doubt that people would pay a lot of money for them.”

“Someone paid ten thousand just for one,” Lenny says. “Once transactions are settled, we’ll have over twenty thousand dollars of clean bills.”

“So Arthur, what’s the plan here?” Dutch steps forward, wrangling control of the conversation. “We flee to the west like cowards? We assimilate into society, into the very world that rejected us?”

“It isn’t that black and white, Dutch,” Arthur protests.

“Oh, it is.” Dutch spreads his arms, addressing the audience. A preacher at his last sermon. “My people. My family. I am no tyrant. Any who wish to follow Mr. Morgan, and live their lives under the crushing heel of civilization, are free to do so. But if you still believe in our shared dream of freedom, of life away untethered and unbogged by the chains of society, then come with me. Who is loyal? Who has _faith_? We ride today. We ride for liberty.”

Arthur’s blood runs cold. “Dutch, it doesn’t have to be this way,” he says, a shameless plea.

Dutch smiles, grim. “It does, Arthur. You made it so.” He leans back on his heels, and waits.

Predictably, Micah hollers, “I’m with you, Dutch. Until the end,” and waltzes over to Dutch’s side.

“Me too, Dutch. I ain’t goin’ to live like some city-slickin’ nancy,” Bill says. He crumples the papers and throws them on the ground.

There is a pause. For a second, Arthur thinks no one else will speak up. Then, Herr Strauss says evenly, “I do believe my business does better outside the law.”

A dam breaks. Karen declares, “I ain’t no boring rancher girl. I’m in this for life” followed by Molly with a resigned, “Dutch, I love ya, of course I’m coming.”

“I’m going, too,” says Sadie, her expression grave. “I need to put a bullet through Colm O’Driscoll’s head.” She steps over to Micah and Dutch.

Susan strides over to Arthur and embraces him. Her eyes are watery when she pulls away with a bitter smile. “I’m sorry, Mr. Morgan. But someone has to look after him.”

Arthur tips his hat. “I understand, Miss Grimshaw. Thank you. For all these years.”

Tense silence falls again. Dutch looks around, pausing briefly to lock eyes with each one of them. He settles, at last, on Hosea.

Hosea sighs, and his years seem to catch up to him with that one sound. “I’m an old man, Dutch. My days of shootouts and robbing trains are over. All I want now is to live out the rest of my days peacefully, surrounded by the people I care about. If you ask, I will come with you. You know I will. But, please. My oldest friend. Do not ask.”

Dutch’s shoulders sag, and he nods. He seems drained as well, the charisma and bluster fading from him. “We had a good run, Hosea,” he says quietly.

“Yes,” Hosea smiles, “we did.”

The breath catches in Arthur’s throat when Dutch turns back to him with sorrow in his eyes. Maybe this _is_ all just a cruel dream. Arthur hoped dearly, rather expected, even, that this course of events would save them. That it would irrevocably splinter their family was inconceivable.

“Arthur. My son.” Dutch makes an aborted motion, as if about to draw him into a hug. Instead, he tips his hat. “I know you meant well. Take care of them, if you can.”

“If you change your mind…” Arthur starts.

Dutch cuts him off. “I won’t.” In an instant, he transforms, once more the fearless leader. “Men, women, who have proven their loyalty and bravery, pack up! We leave now.”

Arthur and Hosea sit on the porch together, watching. Molly is already settled on the Count, staring down at her hands. Bill lumbers about to gruffly say goodbye and, surprisingly, hugs only Kieran, ruffling his hair. He struggles to take down his tent until Miss Grimshaw, finished with lecturing the other girls about staying responsible without her firm hand to guide them, intervenes. Karen, Mary-Beth, and Tilly are holding hands and weeping, but they’re all smiling. Herr Strauss does his rounds and shakes hands with everyone, all-business. Arthur wishes him the best of luck without really meaning it. Micah starts a cocky stride toward Arthur, but Charles stands in his way, arms crossed. They exchange some words; then Charles grabs Micah and violently throws him to the ground. Micah scowls, yapping obscenities, before Dutch calls him, and he retreats. The last of them to assemble is Sadie, who has but a saddlebag full of worldly possessions but takes her time with the goodbyes: one last squabble with Pearson, one more heart-to-heart with Abigail. She nods at Arthur as she passes, but doesn’t approach. For now, there is nothing more to say.

They mount their horses. Dutch spares one look behind his shoulder at Hosea and Arthur. Then, away they ride, a trim pack of wolves. 

Hosea pats his knee reassuringly. “They’ll be alright, son. We’ll all be alright.”

Arthur counts them. Pearson, Uncle, Swanson. Trelawney, though he’s sure to wander off on his own. Charles, Javier, Lenny. The Marstons. Mary-Beth and Tilly, Kieran. They all look to him once Dutch’s group is gone: the remnants of the Van der Linde gang. His family, hope blooming in their faces, fragile and beautiful.

“Of course we will, old man,” Arthur says. He puts his hand over Hosea’s, warming it. “Yea, I reckon we’ll be just fine.”

.

.

.

**coda**

_If you find this letter, you’ve returned to the plantation house in hopes of finding me again, for whatever reason that may be. I love you like a father and I will always welcome you into my life. If you want to be be a part of it again, please write to my good friend, Mr. Thomas Floyd, who owns a ranch near the town of Valentine._

_If you are in a bad way but don’t want to see me, I left some money in the place we stayed when we first got off that mountain. It’s buried under a rock where you used to always play your phonograph. Those sure were easier times._

_A.M._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i write 30k words so i could Andrew Carnegie Ex Machina all of arthur's problems? why yes. yes i did, and i am very pleased to have done it. i had a small hoot over the irony of a robber baron secretly being a well-known romantic poet. the title of this fic is a quote from Andrew Carnegie: "Do your duty and a little more and the future will take care of itself."
> 
> also: i love javier and they did my boy so dirty. so glad to make him shit on micah in this fic
> 
> -Louis Whitfield is named after Andrew Carnegie's wife  
> -George Lauder is the name of Andrew Carnegie’s cousin  
> -the two random lawyers are named after characters from "Death on the Nile" and "The Wire", respectively  
> -Lauder's lawyer is named after a character from "The Wire" as well  
> -would Andrew Carnegie have had a black lawyer? idk. but does GEORGE LAUDER, progressive millionaire, champion for equal rights and the ARTS have one? hell yea
> 
> as far as the amount the paintings sold for, i used this to ballpark/justify the prices:  
> -https://som.yale.edu/news/2016/06/history-of-the-art-market-in-35-record-breaking-sales  
> -https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Art_auction#Mid-19th_century


	4. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***This chapter contains some spoilers for the epilogue of the game***

_Mr. and Mrs. John Paul Pierre request the honor of your presence at the marriage of Tilly Jackson to Landon Pierre on Saturday, July 18th, 1902 at 4 o’clock in the afternoon..._

“Miss Tilly is finally settling down, huh,” Arthur says, scratching his beard. He hands the invitation to John, who doesn’t pause for a second while scarfing down oats to read it.

“Does this mean we have to go back to the city?” John says. Arthur cuffs him on the head. “Ow, jeez. You know I’m kidding.”

Kieran comes into the kitchen, stifling a yawn. His clothes are already dirtied from an early morning taking care of the horses, a diligent worker even without the threat of eviction hanging over his head.

“Kieran,” Arthur greets, “Miss Tilly is marrying that nice lawyer fella.”

“Great,” says Kieran, beaming. “Are we taking a trip to Saint Denis soon, then?”

“Sure are. You can visit that girl you’re sweet on there. What’s her name again? Mary-Beth, right?”

“Aw, not this again,” Kieran groans. He knows what’s coming.

“When are you gonna propose to that woman? You’ve been courtin’ her for years now, boy.” 

Kieran plops down at the table and huffs. “Arthur, I’ve told you a thousand times: We’ll get married when she publishes her first book.”

Arthur crosses his arms, looking stern. “If I have grey hairs at your wedding, I ain’t gonna be happy.”

“At this rate, you’ll be too old to even walk him down the aisle,” John says.

“I shoulda stayed out there sweating with the horses,” Kieran grumbles as Arthur kicks John under the table.

“Ow, what the hell,” John says, and retaliates by kicking Arthur back.

Arthur frowns and reaches for his bread, fully prepared to throw it in John’s face. John already has a spoonful of oats in hand.

“Will you two ever grow up?” Abigail says, exasperated, snatching the spoon from John as she saunters in, followed by Hosea. She heads to the stove to pour coffee while Hosea takes a seat at the table.

“I wouldn’t count on it. I’ve been waiting for over two decades now,” Hosea says. He murmurs a thanks as Abigail sets a steaming cup of coffee in front of him.

“What can I say? Johnny boy here keeps me young,” Arthur says fondly.

“Is that so? He makes me age twice the speed,” Abigail says.

“You, too,” John mutters, then squawks when Abigail throws a chunk of bread at him. He clambers out of his seat to grab her by the waist, fingers climbing to poke her in the ribs.

“No tom-foolery in the kitchen,” Hosea says. He meets Arthur’s eyes, and they both smile. It’s a typical morning in the household.

.

_Arthur,_

_Just writing to let you know I’m accompanying Brother Dorkins on a mission to Venezuela. The plan is to stay there for at least a year, so I may not be able to write to you all for a while. Say hello to everyone at the ranch for me and let them know I still say a prayer for each of you, every single night._

_Thank you again for all you have done for me._

_Best Wishes,_

_Reverend Orville Swanson_

.

“Can you believe it? The bastard’s really gone straight,” Uncle exclaims after he reads the letter. “A mission to Venezuela. Goddamn…”

“Eh, I’m not surprised. The reverend hasn’t touched drink in more than a year,” Arthur says. He tucks the letter back into his pocket and reclines in his seat on the porch. The ranch stretches out before them, sun setting on acres of verdant land.

“Don’t know how he does it,” Uncle says, and punctuates the statement with a long swig of his beer. “I’m still the same ol’ drunken fool.”

“Humbleness doesn’t suit you, Uncle,” Arthur says, smiling wryly. Uncle runs the cattle ranch with Javier (though Javier tends to come and go as he pleases, so Uncle is surprisingly the responsible one), by far the most profitable segment of business. Kieran swears up and down that he and John will beat them once they sell their first prize horse, but so far the kid hasn’t had the heart to sell _any_ of the horses they’ve raised, despite John’s attempts to bully him into it. Although, if you ask Arthur, John hasn’t been the most proactive about selling the horses either.

Uncle grins. “Maybe I’m just fishin’ for compliments, Mr. Morgan.”

.

_Arthur,_

_Thank you once again for joining me on my trip to photograph that magnificent elk! I cannot believe we saw with our own two eyes such a beauteous sight. The world is so full of wonders, my friend, and with every trip we take, I grow more astonished that it is possible to uncover more._

_I have researched our next quarry: a legendary cougar that prowls the deserts of Gaptooth Ridge! I already know what you’re about to say: I am a fool, yes, and I will one day get ripped to pieces by whatever predator I have chosen to pursue that day. It is a small wonder, then, that you keep coming with me! I think that maybe you are just as much a fool as I._

_Please relish in the photograph of that elk. It is in color this time; society’s rapid advance has some good outcomes, I suppose._

_Your Friend,_

_Albert Mason_

.

_M. Floyd/Callahan/Morgan/Whatever your silly name is now,_

_Life in Tahiti is, as usual, utterly fantastic. Again, I must implore you to come visit! Beautiful women lounging in the sun, their skin shining like gold. And their breasts, supple and rich, untarnished by city fumes and smog! Friend, take a trip down here, you must. Oh, I know you’ve heard it all before from me, but I will not rest until you relent!_

_Mostly, I write to congratulate you on your latest exhibit (I wrangle American news down here just for you). What the government is doing to the native people in your country is filthy. Deplorable. Society is all animals. If my art could help to raise awareness for their plight, I would gladly contribute it!_

_Good luck, friend. You are the only American I have met who attempts to have_ _some_ _principles._

_Charles Châtenay_

.

“Arthur, it’s good to see you.”

Arthur startles at the sight of his old friend in a suit. A six-foot wall of muscle, he looks wildly out of place amongst the waifish, jeweled women and plump businessmen. Then again, Arthur supposes he looks equally strange, despite this being his own exhibit.

“Charles? What are you doing here?” Arthur says. 

Charles tugs at his collar, visibly uncomfortable. It’s rather amusing; even after being mauled by a cougar during a hunting trip together, he was stoic. Charles Smith, defeated by a suit and tie.

“Rains Fall asked that I come. Eagle Flies cannot be trusted to contain himself right now,” Charles says.

Arthur nods. “I can’t blame him.” Tensions are high. After years of political maneuvering, threats, and well-placed bribes, Cornwall has finally managed to get the federal government to relocate the Wapiti people off their reservation. The oil tycoon will begin drilling the land any day now. 

Despite Arthur’s best efforts to sway George Lauder toward providing more aid to the Native Americans and wildlife conservation programs, Lauder is more focused on visions of science and progress. He sponsors art exhibits like this one every now and then or donates to charities that Arthur writes to him about, but his passion for nature seems to only extend to romantic poetry, not so much to action.

Arthur sighs heavily. In response, Charles grabs two flutes of champagne off a nearby waiter’s tray and hands one to him.

“Thanks,” Arthur says, and knocks the whole thing back like a shot.

Charles smothers a grin. “How long do you have to stay here?”

“How long do _you_?” Arthur counters.

“I think I’ve done enough. Let’s go get a real drink.”

“In Blackwater? No such thing,” Arthur says, but he’s following Charles to the exit anyway.

“I have some whisky in my saddlebag. We can ride out and find a spot.”

“Charles, you may be the best man I’ve ever known.”

.

_Arthur,_

_Can you please stop getting arrested for disturbing the peace? I know, I know, the hypocrisy. But seriously, don’t you and Charles have anything better to do than scare some poor rancher’s sheep?_

_That being said, I’ve written the sheriff and all charges against the two of you will be dropped. Just please stay away from Blackwater for a little while (again)._

_Also, I know that you ask me to help as “practice for my eventual big-shot law career”, but you already have a real big-shot lawyer on your side. Next time, just ask him. And when you write to me next, it better be to invite me for a goddamned drink or something more fun._

_I know, I know. The hypocrisy._

_Best,_

_Lenny Summers_

.

“...so I get a telegram saying that Arthur is in the Blackwater County Jail, with _Charles_ of all people, for _rustling sheep_.” Lenny throws his hands in the air, and beer from his teetering mug sloshes onto his shirt. No one looks over at the ruckus; it’s Friday night in Saint Denis, and the saloons are packed to the brim. “Man’s a goddamn world-renowned artist, and here he is getting arrested for rustling livestock!”

“Once a cowboy, always a cowboy,” Javier says. He nudges Arthur on the shoulder, friendly. “Why did you have to drag Charles into your nonsense, man?”

“It was a misunderstanding,” Arthur grumbles. “Charles and I just wanted to take a closer look at these strange cows he had. It was nighttime. It was dark. They turned out to be regular ol’ sheep.”

Lenny howls with laughter.

“It was _dark_.” 

Javier smiles into his whiskey. “You’re damn lucky John doesn’t know. Your ass would never live it down.”

“All those years of telling him he got his brains eaten by wolves,” Lenny giggles, “and you’re out here mistaking sheep for cows.”

“You really wanna keep mockin’ me about drunk foolishness?” Arthur says. “Javier, I remember one time I came into the studio, and that French painter was dolled up in a dress--”

“No, you know, I don’t think he needs to hear that story,” Lenny swiftly interrupts. 

“I think I really do,” Javier says.

Arthur grins. “Well, like I said, the French painter is a fancy pink dress with make-up, to boot, and Lenny is in a dress right along with him.” Lenny groans and puts his head in his hands. “It’s yellow and frilly and real poofy, like he’s going to a ball. He even has on rouge.”

Javier eyes Lenny like he’s imagining it. “What the hell, Summers.”

“Lenny got the idea to rob some party with a lot of rich folk. Go in, pickpocket the drunk bastards, then run off with all the cash and jewelry before anyone realizes what’s going on. Châtenay, being Châtenay, convinces him that they should dress as _women_ to do it.”

“He said it was the perfect disguise. And honestly, those dresses had a lot of room to store stuff,” Lenny defends weakly.

“You’re lucky Arthur stopped you two when he did,” Javier says, then chokes on a sip of whiskey as Arthur pauses tellingly. “You _didn’t_?”

“They had already robbed the damn party when I found ‘em,” Arthur says. “Lenny got away with it, but Châtenay was recognized by a lot of people. That’s partly why he ran off to Tahiti.”

Javier cackles. “Summers, you must have made a real convincing woman.”

“Damn the French,” says Lenny ruefully.

.

_Arthur,_

_Got good news to share with you all. The missus and I have recently brought our firstborn into this world, a son, Oliver Pearson. Come visit and bring everyone along. I kind of miss Javier’s singing. He makes the missus sound like a dying cat. Don’t tell the smug bastard that. Either of them!_

_Also, you won’t believe who came by the store the other day. Sadie fucking Adler. Woman is the same. Still is wearing pants and has fifteen guns on her. She practically robbed me with the discount that I gave her. Anyway she said she’s staying in Valentine a while longer, if you wanna stop by the saloon._

_Seriously come by and visit soon. I’m trapped here._

_Simon Pearson_

.

“Mrs. Sadie Adler,” Arthur greets, sliding into the barstool beside her. “It is damn good to see you.”

“You, too, Arthur,” Sadie says. Pearson was wrong; she isn’t quite the same. Her hair is shorter, cut low by her chin to frame her face, clean and practical. She’s tanner from years of living outdoors, and her freckles have doubled. Most of all, she looks calmer. The wrathful slant of her brow has smoothed out; her mouth no longer forms a sneer so easily. Her shoulders are pushed back, confident, without the same haunted slope that weighed her down before.

“You look good,” she remarks. “You look younger. You got some magic fountain up on that ranch of yours?”

“Well, sure we do. It’s in the shed where Uncle makes his moonshine.” Sadie laughs. Even that comes easier now. “So, Mrs. Adler, how have you been these past few years?”

Sadie hums reflectively. She fishes out a cigarette and lights it herself, buying time to assemble her response. “Well, pretty shit, at first, I won’t lie. Dutch,” she says cautiously, continuing when Arthur doesn’t blink at the name, “led us north to some rat-infested mud heap. There was talk about robbing Cornwall and interfering with the Army and the Indians.” She scoffs. “I know. It was insane. But luckily, me being my persuasive and charming self, I got him to focus on hunting down Colm instead. So we spent a few months killing his boys until we got to him.” She flashes her teeth, bloodthirsty at the memory, a bite of the old Sadie. But then the fury fades. “I split ways with them after that. Not sure what they’re up to now.”

Arthur bumps lightly her on the shoulder. “Good thing I’m asking ‘bout you then, not them.”

Sadie bumps him back, much harder. Arthur catches himself on the counter. “Well, I decided to go straight. Been bounty hunting.”

“Damn, I owe Javier some money,” Arthur curses. “He knew it was you when we started hearing rumors of some woman bounty hunter.”

“Well of course he knew,” Sadie says. “He’s ridden out with me before.”

Arthur blinks. “Why, that tricky bastard. I always wondered why he was goin’ out to scout bulls but never came back with no cattle.”

“I think you’re just losing your touch, Arthur Morgan,” she teases. “Gullible old man can’t see a lie if it slapped him across the face.”

“Maybe so,” he concedes, grinning. “So, why’d y’all never ask me or John to come along?”

“You both got a life now, a good one. Marston has a kid. Didn’t think it was right to get you mixed up with this dangerous business again.” Sadie admits, “And mostly, sometimes we have to work with people that y’all aren’t on the best terms with.”

“Ah,” Arthur says, and drops it. “Well, I’m glad you’re here now. You stayin’ in Valentine much longer?”

“A while. Got a bounty in these parts.” She adds, sheepish, “To be honest, I was thinking of taking a vacation after that. I heard there’s some rich artist around these parts who has a cushy ranch. Sometimes he takes in old friends.”

Arthur chuckles. “I heard that, too. I heard that old friends are always welcome, and can stay as long as they like.” 

.

_Dear Mr. Callahan,_

_It has been a long time since we last spoke. I have heard that your artist friend has reached new heights of success and acclaim, and I dearly congratulate you! I still have that original sketch of ‘A Fool in the Snow’, which I unabashedly use to impress any guests I entertain._

_If you’re wondering why I’m writing now (or perhaps why I haven’t written for the past few years), it is because I found a subject for my new book: you. Now, I know you would be terribly against the idea, so let me reassure you that it is only based upon your life, and your real name would not be mentioned in capacity. I have traveled across the country interviewing your friends, acquaintances, and in some terrifying cases, your enemies. I bring good news from one in specific: He wishes you all very well, and hopes to stop by soon._

_Also, that Miss Grimshaw is certainly something. If you do not hear from me again, it is safe to assume I have gone and eloped with her!_

_Sincerely,_

_Theodore Levin_

.

Springtime. The breeze carries pollen through the air, delicate motes of yellow. Clouds gather overhead in gossipy wisps before floating apart. Arthur is painting the sky when a familiar silhouette appears at the edges of the ranch: cowboy hat atop an august white horse.

“Abigail, put some coffee on and get Hosea, would you?” Arthur calls back toward the house. He’s smiling, and he can’t stop. “We have a visitor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for joining me on this journey to see Arthur (and most of the gang) obtain peace and happiness! Hope it was as lovely for you to read as it was for me to write. Let me know what you thought of it! :)
> 
> trivia:  
> -Kieran and Mary-Beth getting married after she publishes her first book is a Bakuman reference lol. good manga  
> -Color photography was around by this time, but wasn't commercialized until the year 1907: https://blog.scienceandmediamuseum.org.uk/a-short-history-of-colour-photography/  
> -Pearson named his son after Oliver Hazard Perry, a very prominent American naval commander
> 
> some scenes i couldn't fit in properly:  
> -arthur giving charles that drawing he made of him and the bison  
> -arthur gave albert mason the painting of the wolves rather than selling it in the gallery  
> -john seeing ‘A Fool in the Snow’, though i replied in the comments with a brief summary of how i imagine the scene


End file.
